56 Oakwood Avenue, Puerta Mibela, La Perdita:
James A. Vandemar walked confidently towards the apartment building. It wasn't quite what he was expecting. Not at all.
"Excuse me, good sir," Vandemar said to a big construction worker wearing a hard-hat and sitting on the short garden-wall next to a metal lunch-bucket. He was eating a sandwich. "Where can I find... er," he frowned at a piece of paper in his hand, looking at it through round spectacles, "the offices of MBL Consulting, Incorporated?"
The construction worker snorted and spat out a piece of pickel onto one of Vandemar's $300-dollar shoes. "Sorry 'bout that," he said, grinning. "They ain't here right now."
Vandemar bent down and wiped off his shoe with a handkerchief. "Any idea where I can find their current whereabouts?"
"Nah. Gotta talk t'my supervisor 'bout that," the man said, taking another bite out of his BLT.
"Thank you," Vandemar replied in a droll voice as he walked towards the remains of the building. It appeared to have sustained more damage than most of the buildings in Puerta Mibela. However, they seemed to be rebuilding at a moderate pace. And from the looks of things, they were expanding. Business must be going very well for them, he thought briefly before making his way to the temporary shack that had been brought in by the construction company. He stepped inside.
Two big, beefy men with dark complexions turned and stared at the well-dressed stranger, while a thinner man with a moustache who appeared to be the site foreman looked up at Vandemar with questioning eyes. "Er... can I help you, sir?"
"My name is James Vandemar," he said, handing the man his card with delicately gloved hands. "I'm looking for the current offices of MBL Consulting, Incorporated."
"Oh... uh, sure..." the foreman said, "I think I got it somewhere around here." He fidgeted around various pockets on his person, not having any luck. Finally, he grinned and held up his forefinger. "One moment. Let me check with Justine..." He stood up and left the shack.
Vandemar shifted uncomfortably there as the two remaining construction workers looked him over. The afternoon heat wasn't helping much, nor was his expensive two-piece suit or bowler hat. But the way those two labourers looked at him -- it was as if they'd never seen a gentleman before! The sooner he was off this godforesaken Caribbean island, the better.
A few moments of complete and uncomfortable silence later, a beautiful woman with dark hair and big eyelashes stepped into the shack, followed by the foreman.
"You are Monsieur Vandemar, I take eet?" Justine said in a French accent.
"Er, yes, quite."
"You are looking for ze current address of the MBL Consulting, oui?" she said, handing him an MBL Consulting, Inc. business card with the address of "56 Oakwood Avenue, Puerta Mibela, La Perdita" crossed out hastily with a ball-point pen and replaced by "23 Pescados Drive, Del Mar, La Perdita".
"Ah, thank you very much," Vandemar said to the woman. "I'll be on my way, then." He walked out of the shack and headed towards the taxicab he left waiting for him on the curb. He could've sworn that he'd heard the sound of laughter coming from the shack as he'd left.
***
Kit Piper was all smiles and jokes while he had been showing Kristogar Velo around the place. The ol' used car salesman bit always worked for him in the business world.
Never let 'em see you sweat, he reminded himself and hoped nobody noticed any kind of change in his personality. Good old Kit Piper. He never has any troubles. Walks on air, that one does.
Bullshit.
Complete and utter bullshit.
Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.
Kit Piper's daughters and ex-wife had been kidnapped by the Mafia, and the only way he could possibly save them was to keep his mouth shut, keep his appearances up with the team, and steal as much money from the company funds as possible before tomorrow noon arrived.
Still, he was a born con man. A con man who had supposedly reformed, it was true, but he was a con man nonetheless. And if there was one thing he had learned to do, it was the delicate art of bullshitting people. He wished to God he could tell his team about the kidnapping -- with all their power they'd be able to save his daughters, and maybe even his ex-wife (though those alimony payments had been getting rather high of late). Well... what if he did tell the team? What if Tobias Christopher just ran in there and scooped them out before anyone could do any harm to them? Only problem is... they were in two separate locations, and he had no idea where either of them were. Even if Tobias with his super-speed could save one of them, the other one would be dead. Just like the man on the telephone said.
No. He might as well not have a team on call any longer. He was technically on his own again. And even if by some miracle he managed to get the money paid to Mr. Gambini and get his daughters back (they could keep the ex-wife), his reputation with the team would be utterly ruined. They'd have every reason to press charges against him. He'd have to go to jail... again. And this time he couldn't use his youth as an excuse for his behavior.
Fuck.
Fuckety-fuck-fuck.
He didn't have a choice. Gambini hadn't given him one. He just needed to get the money -- no matter if he had to lie, steal, and cheat to get it -- to save his daughters' lives.
***
23 Pescados Drive, Del Mar, La Perdita -- "The Fish Factory":
James A. Vandemar stepped out of the taxicab after tipping the driver a modest fee and found his expensive right shoe stuck in something extremely sticky. The taxicab drove off as he shut the door behind him, but a strong, rancid smell alerted him to the fact that he had inadvertently stepped on a large pile of dog shit. "Oh, bother," he mumbled to himself in disgust. "I hate this island. I really hate it."
A group of smiling children suddenly surrounded him, their hands out, and several of them touching him. "Get away from me, you smelly rascals!" he shouted, raising his briefcase to keep their hands off of it. They ran off laughing.
"You're the smelly one, gringo!" one of them shouted as they ran off and went to play in the road.
Vandemar crinkled his nose at the persistent smell coming from his shoe and stepped onto the freshly-mowed lawn, attempting to rub away as much as possible. Unfortunately for him, he slipped and fell in the slick grass, landing flat on his back. "Oof," he said, and turned around, pushing himself up. This was not a good day. Finally, he stood up, adjusted his bowler hat and glasses, and walked towards the temporary offices of MBL Consulting, Incorporated.
As he did so, he couldn't help but notice that the persistent smell of fish permeated this place...
***
Kit Piper found himself in a small supply room where he was desperately rummaging through the papers in search of cash. Any cash, whether it was paper or electronic. He was interrupted by the nasally voice of Shirley through the intercom once more:
"Kit, there's someone here to see you in the office."
He sat there in the mess of papers and looked up at the door. "Be right there!" he shouted before he realized that nobody would be able to hear him. He pulled his large girth up and opened the door, walking hurriedly towards the office. What the hell was up with all these interruptions? It wasn't another call from one of Gambini's men, was it? He quickened his pace, not knowing what to think.
"Hey, Kit, I was wondering--" Tobias Christopher said as Kit rushed past him.
"Goodtoseeyou,man,sorry,can'ttalknow," Kit spewed out as he kept going.
"Huh. The man's starting to sound like me," TC muttered to himself.
Kit found himself at the office. "Hey, Shirl-girl, any calls for me?"
"No, Kit, there's someone to see you," she replied, pointing at the gentleman in the expensive suit, bowler hat, glasses, and carrying a briefcase.
"Oh, right, right," Kit said, flashing his pearly whites and extending a hand to the man. "Hey, killer gloves, man! My name's Kit Piper. How can I help you, my good man?"
"Mr. Piper," said the man, smiling a polite, if somewhat effeminate, smile. He spoke in a reserved English accent. "My name is James Vandemar, and I am a solicitor of the firm of Croup, Vandemar and Mayhew. My card." He handed Kit his card and continued. "I represent BountyLand Foods, Inc."
"Oh yeah?" said Kit, looking at the card. "A lawyer, huh? Say, how is ol' BountyLand doing, anyways? I've never actually met anyone from the company yet, though I've spoken with their accounts manager a few times. Rae's a hoot."
"Hm. Yes. Quite," Vandemar said. "Well, Mr. Piper, my employers hired me to investigate the matter of the supposed death of the owner of BountyLand Foods, Inc. As you may know, the ownership of the company reverts to the original owners, the Carmichael family of Yorkshire, without the continuance of this contract." He held up a piece of paper.
"Well, Pete Glover was a kind soul," Kit said, wearing his sad face for effect. "Left everything to the company. Such a trooper."
"That may very well be, Mr. Piper, but unless you can provide some proof of his death, I am forced to repossess ownership of the company from this day forth."
Kit laughed. "You're kidding me, right? You're pulling my leg? Pete's funeral was last year. He died while on a mission."
"I am not aware that any death certificate was ever issued, Mr. Piper."
"Of course not! There wasn't any body to examine," he said before he caught himself.
"Then what proof do you have that he died at all?" Vandemar said without waiting for a beat. "Mr. Piper, I can assure you that I have fully investigated the matter before my arrival upon this island. My employers, the Carmichael family, are very eager to regain ownership of the company, the deed of which the late Martin Carmichael lost in a card game your Mr. Glover won exactly one year ago today. Deirdre Carmichael, his daughter and sole heir, is especially eager over the matter, as her father was driven to suicide after losing the company to your Mr. Glover. To that end, my firm hired a specialist to conduct surveillance on your Mr. Glover and your MBL Consulting."
"Uh... who?"
"One Mr. Griffin. I can provide you with contact details if you wish. Anyways, over several weeks of surveillance it was discovered that Mr. Glover had gone missing without a trace. The life of a transient, I suppose? In any event, although your company held a small memorial service for Mr. Glover and purchased a headstone for him scarcely a day after his disappearance, no actual proof of his death has ever been registered with the La Perditian government. I'm sure you can confirm this?"
"I-I'm sorry, but--"
"I am sorry as well, Mr. Piper, but unless you can produce the person or corpse of Pete Glover, originally of Come by Chance, Newfoundland, Canada, by midnight tonight, the ownership of BountyLand Foods, Incorporated will revert to the Carmichael estate."
Kit found himself speechless -- not a common condition for him -- as he realized what he was hearing. The cash-flow. The cash-flow was coming to an end. Add that to the fact that they were up to their necks with bills, and it seemed to Kit Piper that MBL Consulting could very well be broke... and his daughters might be dead...
[ 01-31-2003, 09:08 AM: Message edited by: TheTimeTrust ]
