John Locke: The Love You Crave

Gwen puts her hand on my arm to stop me. Jeff Tuck tenses up, just like I taught him, ready to strike, should there be a problem. I nod to let him know I’m okay.

“I like a man with money!” Gwen coos.

Of course she does. But Callie’s wealthy too, weighing in with a billion dollar net worth statement. The fact I’m six times wealthier than Callie merely keeps me in the game.

Gwen stands on her tiptoes and kisses my earlobe.

“Have you missed me?” she says.

“I have.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, why did you buy PhySpa?”

The way she changes subjects reminds me of my girlfriend, Rachel, who I’m allowed to call once a week. Thinking about it now, I realize it’s been a week since my last call.

“I didn’t care about the spa part,” I say. “But a plastic surgery center in Vegas? Where every woman wants boobs and the best plastic surgeon in the world is available to run the place? It’s a no-brainer!”

She purses her lips and says, “I think about you all the time.”

I suspect she’s only thought about me since discovering I might be wealthy a moment ago. But no matter. Gwen’s desire to be around rich, powerful people notwithstanding, it dawns on me she’s as easy-going as any woman could be. She was glad to sit in Callie’s kitchen munching dry cereal, being left out of my conversation with Callie, and just as happy to attend a board meeting she knows nothing about. She didn’t ask why I brought her to PhySpa instead of Ropic Industries, and I doubt she cares. She didn’t complain about entering the security cubicle, nor when we took time to visit Dr. P.

There are six people in the consultation room of PhySpa when Gwen and I enter, all of whom are giving off a bored, who-gives-a-shit attitude. A middle-aged guy with thick glasses and no eyebrows sits at the head of the long table. He’s William Wadsworth, the CEO. I know, because I’ve done my homework. I spent the past week reading everything about Ropic Industries my facilitator, Lou Kelly, has dug up on the company since the day I met Lucky Peters. Plus, I have insider information I gleaned from Lucky prior to his death.

William clears his throat to speak, but I put a stop to that by slamming my fist on the table and shouting, “Get your ass out of the chair, William, ’cause there’s a new sheriff in town!”

He grimaces at my lack of couth, but remains where he’s sitting. I grab my gun from my ankle holster and point it at him.

He tries to lower his head into his suit coat, turtle-like, while raising his hands. I notice the others have snapped to attention.

“Put your hands down,” I say. “This isn’t a robbery, it’s a hostile takeover.”

He scrambles out of the chair, and Gwen sits in it, smiles brightly, and says, “Why, thank you, William!” Then she points at my gun and says, “I thought we just went through security.”

“We did,” I say, “but I own the joint.”

“Ah,” she says.

I say, “Put your cell phones on the table, everyone.”

Tony Spumoni, Ropic’s president, says, “Cell phones aren’t allowed at board meetings.”

I point my gun at his face. “Cell phones on the table.”

Everyone places their cell phones in the center of the table.

I retrieve mine from my jacket, and press a button. When Joe Penny answers, I ask him to join us.

Seconds later, Joe enters. I tell him to collect the phones. While we’re in the meeting, he’ll download their recent calls and text messages so I can see what they’ve been up to. He gathers the phones and leaves, as I announce, “I’m Donovan Creed, Mrs. Peters’s advisor. Anyone have a problem with my being here?”

No one says anything.

“Good.” I holster my weapon. “Which of you ladies is Mary?”

Mary tentatively raises her hand a few inches.

“You’re the corporate secretary?”

She nods.

“What have you written down so far?”

“N-nothing.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way. I’ll provide the minutes later, and you can sign them.”

“Th-that’s not normally how it’s d-done,” she says.

“Right. And the way you people run a company isn’t the way it’s normally done, either.”

“What are you insinuating?” William says.

“Ropic Industries is under federal investigation for accounting irregularities.”

“Thanks to her husband!” Tony says, with contempt.

“That’s a rather nasty tone to take, under the circumstances,” I say. “Can’t you see Mrs. Peters is grieving over the loss of her husband?”

Everyone takes a minute to look at Gwen, but no, they can’t detect any sadness in her face. I ask, “Which of you is Stevie, the accountant?”

“Stephen Derrier is no longer with us,” William says.

“He’s dead?”

“He’s been relieved of his duties, awaiting federal investigation for misappropriation of corporate funds.”

“Why’s that a federal offense?”

“He and Lucky Peters conspired to fund a casino wagering scheme.”

I arch an eyebrow.

“That’s right, Mr. Creed,” William says, smugly. “We turned ourselves in to the authorities, pled our case, and they’re giving us an opportunity to stay in business.”

“Only in Vegas,” I say.

“That’s right. And you should know that since Mrs. Peters’s husband was directly involved in the embezzlement of more than $12 million of corporate assets, our attorneys are working to divest her of his shares and redistribute them to the shareholders.”

I look around the table and see they’re all wearing smug smiles. They think I’m losing control of the meeting.

They’re wrong.

I say, “Since Ropic has no in-house attorneys, you must have hired outside counsel.”

“That’s right.”

“How much was their retainer?”

William smiles. “That’s really none of your business.”

“Is it safe to say you paid more than fifty thousand dollars?”

“We’re a public company. You can learn those specifics at the next shareholder meeting, should you care to attend.”

“Assuming you’re a registered stock holder,” Toni Spumoni adds, with a sneer.

I walk to the door, open it, and Jeff Tuck enters, closes the door behind him, and plants himself in front of it. I remove my jacket, then grab the neck of the board member sitting closest to the door, and lift him out of his chair while applying enough pressure to make him wet his pants, violently.

“Now, see here!” William says, rising to his feet.

“I don’t feel like waiting till the next shareholder meeting,” I say. “Who’s this guy with the weak bladder?”

“Mr. Shay.”

“And he’s?”

“Our new accountant.”

I notice Gwen’s face getting flushed, which doesn’t mean she’s embarrassed. Quite the contrary, it means she’s getting turned on by my display of power.

I look at the lady sitting beside Mr. Shay. She’s cowering, trying to avoid eye contact. “And who’s this?” I say.

No one speaks, but I already know she’s Tootie Greene, Ropic’s executive vice president.

I drop the urine-soaked accountant back in his chair and say, “Mrs. Greene? You can either tell me how much the company paid for outside legal counsel, or I can squeeze some piss out of you, too.”

“Too late,” she says.

A quick glance at the crotch of her tan slacks confirms she’s telling the truth. From her place at the head of the table, Gwen exclaims, “Oh! Oh, my!”

Everyone looks at her, and she says, “Sorry.”

But I can see she’s positively smoldering. I wink at her, and she swallows hard. She fixes her gaze on me, waiting to see what I’m going to do next, clearly hoping I’ll put on a show of power.