The Corporate Ladder: Directives

======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====

The maitre’d gave Paul Volek a smile as he crossed the threshold into Charlie’s. Before Volek could even say a word, the young man in a spotless white shirt already had a menu in his hands and was leading him through the empty rows of tables to the back room. Nervously, Volek re-buttoned the top button of his Thom Browne suit and took a deep breath before walking through the double doors at the back of the restaurant.

Charlie’s Steakhouse was something of an urban legend. The restaurant was almost always empty, but no one could get a reservation. Many suspected that the restaurant was a front for the mob, used to launder their dirty money. Perhaps there was some truth to that; Volek knew better than to question it. What he did know was that Charlie’s had a list, and only people who were on that list would not hear “I’m sorry we’re fully booked that night,” when they called for a reservation.

The back room was always open, available for meetings reserved by the rich and powerful. The mayor and his staff, Congressmen and Senators, heads of the unions and large corporations, and any local professional sports team’s management or ownership. Today, when Paul Volek pushed through into the green-carpeted room, with multiple animal heads adorning the wall, it was five members of the Meca Corp’s board of directors, including the COO, who were seated at the oblong table.

With a nod to the four men and the single woman, Volek sat at the head of the table. Instantly, the waiter, who had been hanging back in the corner, was at his side with a bottle of Macallan 18. Curtly, Volek nodded and the young man poured a hefty slosh from the bottle of $200 scotch. The glass didn’t even touch the table before Paul grabbed it from the waiter’s hand and downed the whole thing in one swallow before holding it back up for a refill. He may not be the biggest drinker in the world, but today he was going to need it.

“Where are we?” came the voice from the opposite end of the table. John Q. Rutherford was the chief executive officer of Meca Corp and Volek’s former classmate at both Georgetown Prep and Harvard Business School. Neither would claim that the other was their “friend” per se, even though they played 18 holes together at Hillcrest Country Club every Sunday and their wives were on a first-name basis. They’d come up through the ranks that most privileged boys from good families in the DC area came through. They were natural allies, partners, even though Volek couldn’t stomach Rutherford’s air of superiority.

Volek took another sip, both to calm his nerves and to even his voice. “Tom Larsen has requested outside counsel. He claims that it is because he doesn’t want to implicate the firm any further than he already has, but I suspect it’s because he doesn’t trust me.”

“You think he suspects that you are the one who framed him for the deposit from the off-site account?” Charlotte St. Pierre asked in a husky voice.

“Off-site account,” he thought with a mental eye roll. Just call it what it is, sweetheart, a fucking slush fund. Used to pay your deadbeat husband’s alimony, and that second apartment in LA for your model client/boy-toy.

“I do,” Volek said aloud. “My guy in IT pulled some file fragments of the bank account records for accounts relating to the shell companies off Larsen’s computer. Given that he was so quickly able to target one of those accounts and pair it to a client account that would require a deposit, he’s clearly put most of the pieces of the puzzle together.”

“And has your guy in IT figured out who is assisting Larsen in breaching our systems?” Rutherford asked.

“He says that it’s definitely not one of his guys,” Volek replied. “He’s run the systems checks against all their logins, including their personal equipment, and can’t find any overlaps or matching patterns. His guess is that Larsen hired some outside help, a blackhat off the dark web. He said he has some contacts and can try to confirm it, but so far nothing.”

“What about this junior executive you flagged for us a few weeks back?” St. Pierre asked. “The one with the computers background and MIT degree? What was it, Wing? Wang?”

“Wong,” Volek said pointedly. “And yes, my guy in IT has done a systems check on him as well, nothing suspicious thus far.”

“He would be the most likely accomplice for Larsen to turn to,” she countered. “He knows the ethical risks we’re all in, what to look for in terms of evidence, and he stands to gain a hell of a lot if he helps Tom become the new head of legal.”

It was true, Vincent Wong was the prime suspect when Volek first learned that someone was snooping in his system, but it didn’t make any sense to him. Apart from the fact that Vincent, while a sharp legal, was a meek and subservient little boy, he’d never even seen the young man in the same room as Larsen. Besides, Volek and Wong were on cordial terms, and he’d recommended that the young man be promoted in their last quarterly meeting. There was really no reason that Wong would betray him.

“It’s not him,” Volek said firmly.

“Can you guarantee that?” Rutherford asked.

“Maybe we should have Dennis pay this guy a little visit?” the head of technology Ray Ramirez finally chimed in.

“That may be a good idea,” St. Pierre responded.

Volek was about to retort, but Rutherford held up his hand to stop the conversation. “No, we’re not at that point yet. Volek says this guy is clean and his guy in IT backs him up, so I believe him. In any case, the real reason we’ve all gathered here today is to determine how we are going to tie off this whole issue.”

“Which I still disagree with,” Ramirez interrupted.

“As do I,” St. Pierre added.

Rutherford looked to his right at the last participant, a young man just cresting his 30s in an immaculate suit. Ewan Parthage was the son of Carl Parthage, the founder of Meca. After his father passed two years ago, the younger Parthage assumed the vacant board seat left behind by his father, along with his sizable controlling stake in the company. But he was, to put it kindly, stupid. He’d actually stumbled back-asswards into this little scheme when he’d pulled some money out of an account for a subsidiary that was actually their slush fund. Getting that dope to wrap his head around what he’d done, and to convince him that he’d be in just as much hot water as the rest of their group, was no easy matter. After all, it’s easier to trick a smart man than to convince an idiot.

“I’m with you, John,” the young man said quietly.

Rutherford turned to the rest of the table, “well, given my and Paul’s stance, and that the SEC is breathing down our necks, I’m going to make the call that it is time for us to close up shop here.”

And with that, he stood, buttoned his suit, and began walking towards the front of the room. If the four had ordered any food before Volek had entered the room, it was surely about to go to waste. As he passed Paul, Rutherford placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Talk to your guy in IT. Make the arrangements. Purge all the off-site bank accounts. Account for every single penny that has been shuffled and moved and make sure that it is back in place. Have your guy in IT destroy whatever traces are left of this whole sordid affair. Whatever he can’t, make sure it falls on Larsen. Put his name on all the filings, the corporate transactions, make it look legit. Once it’s done, dump the whole thing on him.”

“And then?”

Rutherford shrugged. “We wait for the heat to die down. Maybe we can do it again in a year or so, learn from this and use some of Meca’s legitimate purchases coming down the pipeline next time. In any case, we can’t risk it now while everyone is on top of us.”

With that, the man pushed through the double doors out into the still empty restaurant. The other four silently followed him, except for Charlotte St. Pierre, the last to exit.

“Don’t fuck this up Paul,” she said with a withering stare.

Volek scoffed as he turned to watch her leave the room. Jealous bitch, still angry after all these years that I broke things off with her. The two had been well into their marriages when they’d started their affair–hell, he was already on his second–but she always wanted him more than he wanted her. She was ready to leave Jim for Volek, and she would have if he hadn’t broken it off. He told her it was because he wasn’t ready for something more serious than what they already had, but she knew the truth. That his appetite had changed. His cravings had gotten far…younger.

After a few seconds count, Volek took up the glass of scotch. It was still a quarter full, enough for one swallow or four or five sips if he cared to savor it. In this case, Volek decided that he would savor it as he contemplated what would happen next.

He’d talk to his guy in IT, tell him to do almost exactly what Rutherford had just said. Of course, none of the other four knew about his insurance policy, the copies of real and falsified documents with each of their names on them to prevent them from flipping on him as the easy patsy. And then there was the matter of miss Annabelle DeSoto.

Of course, he’d kept a little extra money squirreled away for himself, a rainy day fund as it were. It would be from that he would need to pull the money he’d already promised to the young lady, who’d regrettably fallen into a nasty drug habit that had landed her in the hospital. To keep her quiet about all she knew, he’d have to pay her bills, maybe for rehab, and a bit extra on top. But first thing’s first. Time to put the final nail in Tom Larsen’s career. .

Image via Youtube

48

Respond

Email this to a friend

Hey, I saw this on Post Grad Problems. Check it out.

Josh T.

Don't call me a liar, but you don't have to call me a truther.

• @joshetyler
• @joshetyler