Bad Luck Black Money (8 page)

C
hapter 9

While on a rare vacation in the Fiji Islands, Milton Van Hopenhammer Senior was called 'boss' by the islanders. It was just something they did for all the tourists. Milton liked the moniker so much that he made all the employees at his companies stop calling him Mr. Hopenhammer and instead, call him 'Boss'. Soon after that, everyone, except his wife and kids, called him 'Boss'.

The Boss' daughter, Ruby, played a complex sonata on a grand piano in front of the packed auditorium. She didn't use any sheet music since she was born with a photographic memory and had glanced at the score, a few days previous. Even more impressive was the fact that she had just turned eleven years old.

Beaming with pride, Boss had to marvel at his own creation. Not only was his daughter a genius, she was beautiful. Ruby had long, blonde hair, the face of a model, and an athletic body honed by years of soccer and badminton.

The theater in which Ruby performed was refurbished with a grant from Pluto Technologies. The seats were reupholstered, and the classic architecture was spruced up just for this performance. The latest video and audio recording equipment, manned by the best in the business, caught every note and every image of the Boss' daughter with perfect clarity and high definition.

Looking around the theater for his eldest son, the Boss finally spotted Diamond sitting beside the latest Hollywood starlet in the back row. It was evident that the two had been in the middle of some heavy petting and kissing because the girl was straightening her bra beneath her blouse and her lipstick was smeared. They must have ran out of oxygen and had to take a break.

Diamond saw his father scowling at him. Knowing it would only make him madder, Diamond waved at his dad and wiped some of the girl's lipstick from his own lips. He liked giving the ol' man grief. It wasn't meant to be mean. Diamond was positive that his father was secretly thrilled when he added another notch in his bedpost.

Turning back toward the stage, Boss allowed the disapproving frown on his face to morph into a smile. Diamond was the guy that he'd always wanted to be. The young man was movie star handsome, and all the ladies loved him.

Several years ago, his wife had called him in a panic, interrupting an important meeting with a client. She had caught the then nine-year-old Diamond kissing their twenty-four year old, Porto Rican maid in the laundry room. Boss had dropped the phone upon hearing it and rolled around on the floor in a fit of laughter.

Diamond had been the star quarterback at the most exclusive high school on the West Coast. He was also the valedictorian of his class. Several major universities had offered him a full ride scholarship to play on their respective football teams. Not wanting sports to interfere with his partying, he told them all to, "Go take a flying leap into a big pile of dog shit." It wasn't as if he needed a scholarship since his dad was one of the richest men in the world.

Against his father's wishes, he had taken a year off before college and was presently screwing his way through the who's who of rich, pretty, and famous women. Two hours before his sister's performance was scheduled to start, a Pluto corporate jet had landed on a private airfield. And an awaiting limousine whisked Diamond and his temptress to the concert in the nick of time.

Like his little sister, Diamond had an unfair advantage in the learning department. He was born with selective auditory eidetic memory, which enabled him to instantly memorize anything he heard. School was too easy. Dominating others at sports was too easy. Getting chicks to sex him up was too easy. If anything, life was so easy that it bordered on boredom for the young heir.

Boss let Diamond get away with things he would never tolerate from his other two children. Diamond was destined for great adventures and endless poontang, but he'd never run Pluto Moon Industries. Maybe, he'd one day run one of its subsidiaries, but only as a figurehead. No, the horse to bet on in this race was Emerald.

Emerald sat on his father's right hand side, while his mother sat to his father's left. He watched his little sister play the piano and listened intensely to every note. His ears had caught two missed keys so far, but doubted anyone other than himself had noticed.

Emerald was the middle child. His older brother was handsome, athletic, and blessed with selective auditory eidetic memory. His younger sister was beautiful, athletic, and blessed with photographic memory. Emerald was just a step above scaring the townsfolk with his appearance and being chased after with pitchforks. He couldn't catch a ball if his life depended on it, and he had no notable advantage in the learning department.

Early on, it was obvious to everyone that Emerald would never be the man his brother would. Diamond wouldn't study and still made straight A's, while Emerald would struggle to make B's. But the one thing Emerald had going for him was his laser-like focus.

Childhood testing indicated that Emerald had an average I.Q., much to the disappointment of his father and mother. But Emerald refused to accept an ordinary life in the shadow of his brother. He started studying constantly, alone and with tutors provided by his father's wealth. Slowly B's turned into A's and still Emerald pressed forward.

Emerald demanded to be I.Q. tested again, and he jumped tens of points higher. Still not satisfied, he redoubled his efforts and after endless hours of intense studying, finally surpassed his brother's I.Q. number. He'd managed to accomplish the impossible. Whether he'd become a genius through sheer willpower or awoken a dormant gene, the results spoke for themselves. Emerald was the smartest member of his family, and that was really saying something.

Boss looked to his right at his son, who seemed spellbound by Ruby's performance. Emerald freaked him out. Oh, he loved the boy, but something was just a tad bit off, about him. He liked to be away from other kids. He excelled under the watchful eyes of stern professors at the top of their respective fields. Unfortunately, the boy took after his mother in the looks department with just a splash of his father thrown in there somewhere.

Boss had run the DNA test himself on both Ruby and Diamond to make sure they were genetically his own. Those kids looked too perfect to come out of his baby batter and his wife's eggs. But DNA doesn't lie, and they were indeed his biological children. With Emerald, he didn't even bother to check. He was exactly the type of child he'd expected to have with his homely looking wife.

When Ruby's performance came to an end, she received a standing ovation that went on for twice as long as an ordinary savant would receive. Without question, everyone in the auditorium wanted to score brownie points with Boss. Ruby was showered with roses and praise, and she basked in the limelight.

For after the concert, Boss had reserved an entire five star restaurant for the night. His family and close acquaintances ate the finest food and drank the most expensive wines until Ruby fell over asleep, way past her bedtime, another triumphant day for the Hopenhammer clan.

Chapter 10

The next day, while writing out paychecks for Emerald's tutors, Boss thought about his middle child. Even though Emerald was a bit of an oddball, Boss had faith that his son would take over his companies in the future and expand them beyond his wildest dreams. Any doubts he had about the boy's abilities were shattered on Emerald's fifteenth birthday.

Boss and his wife, Esmerelda, made their children's birthdays spectacular occasions, a difficult task considering the kids' everyday fairytale-like lives. As long as the bill was kept under a couple of million dollars, each child could have the biggest birthday party imaginable with all the presents they wanted.

Ruby, always, just wanted to have small sleepovers with her closest friends. Diamond's birthdays looked like something a young Caligula might throw, with ten times the number of girls attending as boys. Emerald usually wanted to be left alone to study with his clique of teachers, but not the past year.

When Boss asked Emerald what he wanted for his fifteenth birthday, Emerald said that all he wanted was to show his father something that he'd been working on. His father's attention could be his birthday present. Emerald's birthday arrived with Boss feeling a large amount of anxiety.

He feared that Emerald might show him a working nuclear bomb, which he'd built in the basement. Or maybe, there was a stack of bodies hidden behind a wall in the basement. "Why did every scenario involve the basement?" he asked himself.

Esmerelda had thrown together a party in the mansion's ballroom for Emerald against his will. German chocolate cake was served, his favorite. Also, the mandatory balloons and streamers hung from the ceiling and assorted presents were stacked high upon a table near the main entranceway.

Ruby and Diamond were enjoying the party with their friends, even if Emerald was a no-show, so far. At precisely six o'clock, Emerald came to the party, looking for his father.

"Are you ready to see something special, father?" asked Emerald.

"Of course, son, I can't wait. But let me talk to your mother for a minute, first."

Emerald ignored the various children who wished him a happy birthday, except for his brother and sister whom he thanked for coming to his party. Then he waited by the hall doorway for his father.

Boss pulled Esmerelda to the side and said, "Look, I know I'm being paranoid. But if I don't return in half an hour, you come looking for me... and bring security with you."

"Are you out of your mind?" asked Esmerelda in a startled voice. "That's our son! He's not going to hurt you."

"Yeah, I know that," Boss said rubbing the back of his neck. "But something isn't right about that kid.... You do as I say, OK?"

Esmerelda stood there with her arms crossed, shooting daggers from her eyes at Boss.

"Did you hear what I said?" demanded Boss.

"... Yes, I'll check on you in a half hour, but you know you're being ridiculous."

"I know. I know... but better safe than sorry," said Boss as he left to meet up with Emerald.

Under her breath, Esmerelda mumbled, "Stupid."

Emerald led Boss to the art gallery section of the mansion. As he entered the large, open room, Boss immediately noticed a painting lying on the floor directly in front of one hanging on the wall. The one on the floor was turned face down so it was impossible to see what was painted on the canvas.

"I've disabled the alarm system and looped the video feed for the gallery," said Emerald as he walked over to the picture lying on the floor.

Boss froze in mid step, but made himself push onward. His missed step threw off the rhythm of their synchronized walk. Even a baboon would have turned around to see what had happened, but Emerald didn't glance back at his dad.

Either, Emerald was too focused on what he was thinking about to notice, or he now knew that deep down, his father feared him. Boss was furious with himself. He was better than that.

Business journals say more mega deals are done around golf courses than in boardrooms. It's easier to reach an agreement when people are at ease around one another. The relaxing pace and comradely of the golf course, greases the gears of business. Unfortunately, Boss despised the game. Instead, he used the green felt on a poker table as a substitute for golf greens.

There was a lot you could tell about a man or woman by the way they played their cards. Some people would play every hand, no matter how lousy their cards might be. Others would always fold, unless they had a guaranteed winning hand. There were captains of industry who would pout when they lost. And some players concentrated more on smoking Boss' Cuban cigars and drinking his expensive, aged whiskey than on the actual game.

Every action a man takes at the poker table, gives insight on how he conducts his business. Boss had lost tens of thousands of dollars on purpose in order to gain contracts worth hundreds of millions. As a general rule of thumb, the more self-righteous and conservative the businessman, the more wild and raunchy the poker game would become.

An attractive, female dealer always dealt the cards. Boss made sure his dealers' uniforms were cut low enough to reveal jiggling cleavage. Even more skin was shown, when they dealt the cards. If the mood at the table was right, Boss would give a signal and the clothes of the dealer and waitresses would come off. However, they did keep their G-strings, on.... They had to be left with some small shred of dignity.

On rare occasions with a table of predominantly heterosexual women or homosexual men, Boss would bring out, oiled up male strippers to serve drinks. However, the dealers had to stay female and would be dressed more conservatively than usual. He just didn't trust men to deal the cards.

Boss made a metal note to never let another tell slip out in front of Emerald, ever again. The boy could have pink elephants flying out of his ass, and Boss wouldn't allow himself to even raise an eyebrow.

Boss thought, "Come on! Play your cards closer to your vest. Never let your enemy know what you're thinking."

Now, if he could just figure out if Emerald was a threat or an asset....

"You're familiar with this painting, right?" asked Emerald, pointing at a painting hanging on the wall.

"Of course, I bought it before you were born. Its value has more than doubled since then."

"True, if put up for auction, it should sell for around fourteen million dollars," said Emerald, as he looked at his father, who was looking at the painting on the wall.

"I want you to look at this," Emerald said as he picked up the framed canvas, which was lying on the floor. When he turned it over, Boss saw that it was a copy of the one hanging on the wall. He took it from his son and examined it closely.

The framed painting looked like a perfect replica of the one on the wall. Boss looked at the brush stokes and compared them to the original. They matched up perfectly. He turned it over and looked at the stretcher, which matched the timeframe of the late 1700's. And the paint, itself, seemed to have the proper aging. Everything was perfect, down to the signature.

The painting in question was one of the first, major art purchases he'd made with his new wife, Esmerelda. Esmerelda was an expert in fine art, but he had studied up on the subject to make sure that nobody was ripping him off. Boss knew as much about this particular painting as anyone in the world, and he couldn't be sure which one was real and which was fake.

"All right, Emerald," said Boss. "Which one is real?"

"You can't tell?" asked Emerald with pride in his voice.

"I wouldn't have asked if I knew."

"... The one on the wall is the original. The one in your hands is the copy."

"OK," Boss said, measuring his next words carefully. "Then I've got to ask... why?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Emerald. "That's what I want to talk with you about. Where should I start? The beginning, I suppose.... Do you remember an art tutor you hired for me named Loui Marsou?"

"Yeah, it seemed a little strange at the time that you had suddenly developed an interest in art. Your mother was happy.... That was probably a warning sign."

"Well, Loui Marceau was an assumed name taken by master counterfeiter, Gaston Pariff. He had quit the counterfeiting business and was using the skills he’d acquired in the course of forging paintings to teach about painting."

"I'm not liking where this is going," Boss said as he lay the painting against the wall, underneath the original. He folded his arms and tried to find any difference between the two.

"So, I knew that he was really Gaston Pariff before we hired him. It took some doing but I tracked him down and arranged for him to come here as my tutor. Eventually, I got him to let down his guard and be honest with me. He admitted who he was and what he'd done in the past.

I needed not only his skill in counterfeiting paintings but also, his connections in the underworld, who bought and sold stolen art works."

Boss glanced at Emerald to see if he was blowing smoke up his butt. After ascertaining that the boy was indeed telling the truth, he turned his attention back to the twin paintings.

"The deal was that he'd forge a copy of 'Athens’s Bouquet' for me. I would then hang it in place of the original. He would then take the real painting to France and pawn it for six million dollars. It was almost too easy since it's well documented that you are its owner. And Gaston could prove that he had access to the original painting by schooling me.

For his forging the painting and brokering the deal, I agreed to pay him a million dollars. Him being European, he wanted a million Euros, which in today's dollars is like a million and a quarter.... I agreed.

Isn't it odd, how most people's brains cut off at a million? The average worker makes more than a million dollars in his or her lifetime of work, but ask them how much money they want, and it's always a million dollars."

"Where did you get the million dollars to pay him?"

"I'm getting to that, father. Let me tell the story, OK? It's my birthday."

"Fine.... But why this particular painting? There are seven more paintings in this room worth more than this one."

"I'm not greedy, dad. I only took one that was worth as much as I needed and not a penny more.

So away, we're in here hours and hours studying this painting, every brushstroke, and every color splotch of every paint drop.... I'm SO sick of that painting.

The day comes when Gaston makes the perfect copy. It took him over eighty tries, but finally it's time to make the switch. I cut the alarms and video feed just like today. I am just about to take down the painting and put up the fake when I stop myself.... Why am I taking down the original when there is no way to tell the difference between the two?

I take the copy back to Gaston and say, "Here you are." He takes his time studying the canvas and says, "Wow, I'm holding the master's work in my own hands. I'm humbled."

He didn't even realize that I handed him back the copy! He thinks it's the original, and he's the one who painted it!

Gaston flies back to France on one of our company jets, taking the copy with him. The plane's scheduled to fly there anyway, so no harm, no foul. He meets up with his connection who'll only give him four million dollars cash instead of the six he agreed to. The lowlife will hold onto the painting for a week and then give it back to Gaston for a ransom of six million dollars, or else the scum-bucket will sell it to the highest bidder.

Gaston calls me to ask whether to take the money or not. I don't appreciate him calling me. Connecting me to this scheme in anyway, but he is my tutor so I've got plausible deniability. I say, "Take it," and then hang up.

Other than that one phone call, nothing can connect me to anything else that I'm about to say. I've taken extreme measures to ensure that I can sleep at night without worrying about the F.B.I. kicking down the door. I used dead-drops to purchase used laptops and smart phones. I hacked into, used, and abused wireless connections all over six nearby counties.

Command codes hidden within videogame servers relayed my wishes across the world. If anybody can connect me to any of this, then not only do they deserve to catch me, they deserve a Nobel Prize.

Anyway, Gaston checks into a luxury hotel in Paris under another assumed name. He transfers the pawn money into suitcases, locks them up, and calls a reputable courier service. They come pick up the cases, take them to a bank where the branch manager is waiting with the keys.

Earlier, I had hired a private detective, sight unseen, to conduct an exhaustive search through hundreds of bank employees, looking for someone with the right profile. The branch manager, in question, had piles of debt that's owed to the wrong type people, and he's got no hope of ever paying it back. Making him the perfect man for job.

The manager pockets a quarter million as his cut. Then he deposits three and three quarters million into the account of an old man, who's on his deathbed. I'd already checked that the old geezer had no living relatives, and electronically, I had taken control of his bank account. The instant the money hits that account, I wire it to a Cayman Islands account owned by one of the shell companies, which I set up earlier.