Man in the Middle

identified the man as Stanley Drucker.

Ayers knew Drucker, the same way he knew Cannodine. Hannah Neil had also known Drucker, just as she had known Cannodine. She also knew their crimes.

The newscaster’s words found their way into Ayers’ brain:

From what we have been able to gather, Drucker is an aggressive stock fund manager who’s apparently distraught over the loss of millions of dollars in investors’ money over the past several days.

The deep voice then mentioned the tragedy at Jackson Securities just days earlier. The newscaster concluded by saying:

Psychologists believe that with the current volatility in the markets, these sorts of mental breakdowns could become all too common—much like people jumping out windows during the Great Crash and Depression of the 1920’s and 30’s.

Without warning, Ayers felt himself pressed against his chair-back. Drowning out all other sounds, the explosion vibrated the television. The video caught what appeared to be shards of brick hurtling from the disintegrating building next to where the man identified as Drucker had stood.

The commentator’s voice first turned hoarse, then went silent.

A moment later, Anne re-entered the study. Ayers’ white face must have unnerved her because her voice trembled. “Let’s go someplace,” she said. “You need to get out of the house.”

She took her husband’s hand and pulled him up and out. Without a will of his own, it was a simple thing to do.

The forty-nine dollar a night hotel room came furnished with cold linoleum tiles and ragged towels that scratched skin but couldn’t absorb water. The dump also had battered walls, and the overhead lights flickered and hummed. All night long, the sounds of connubial banging in the room next door infiltrated the fabric-thin walls. Sleep had not been an option.

The stooped man with thick glasses tapped his bony fingers on the bedside table while pressing the phone against an ear. SEC Agent Oliver Dawson was small enough to shop in the boys’ section of Sears, and his suit draped a couple sizes too big. His haircut was discount, as was the wide tie riding too high on his collar. He wasn’t much of a physical specimen, either, with crayon lips, a pointed jawbone, and intense eyes. As he waited, he sipped a can of disgusting cola, his third in an hour. He wished the god-damn beverage machine had Diet Coke instead of this generic discountcrap. It tasted like metal and the bubbles were too fat.

Dawson’s attention refocused as a female voice informed him, “The report from the Director’s office yielded only dead-ends. I’m sorry, Oliver. The documents had no fingerprints. We may never know the source of this information on Jackson Securities or Mr. Drucker.”

“Whatever happened to those FBI lab geeks being able to walk on friggin’ water?” Dawson immediately regretted the outburst. “I’m not mad at you, Angela. Just frustrated.”

After she disconnected, Dawson slammed the phone down. This was a kettle of month-old fish-stink. His two biggest leads, and now both obliterated. He wanted to believe neither the FBI lab nor the Security and Exchange Commission’s Enforcement Division had leaks, but he knew one or both did. And he had been so close to squeezing Cannodine and Drucker.

“Some squeeze I managed,” Dawson mumbled to himself. “I’m worse off now than when I started. Now the bastards know who I am and that I care.” They’d be watching, whoever they were.

With his leads down the toilet, he doggedly began to pack his bags for the trip back to Washington, D.C.

“Not giving up,” he told himself, “just waiting for another break.”

CHAPTER THREE

 IT WAS A DISHEARTENING FEW WEEKS OF UNEMPLOYMENT. At least twice, and as many as four times a day, Peter called, interviewed, and generally impressed those he met, only to get dinged when they contacted his former boss for a recommendation.

On several occasions, he tried pretending he’d been unemployed for the last couple of years, but that didn’t fly too well either. Being a bum did-n’t exactly inspire prospective employers. One interview began to sound like the next, and Peter often forgot what dead-end job he was pursuing from one hour to the next. He even dipped into the marginal job market— those paying near minimum wage. Most of those employers wanted to know why a university educated man, who graduated near the top of his class, felt hell-bent on getting a shitty low-paying job working next to high school dropouts. They suggested he might quit the minute he found something more lucrative, as if moving up the job ladder were an option. Quitting his old job before having a new one had proved another of his less than brilliant strategies. At least he had the excuse of stress at his mother’s death and a sudden compulsion to move his life in a direction she would have approved. Still, not a smart move.

Compounding this desperation, he needed to decide between rent payments and car payments. He elected to pay on the car—he could sleep in the back seat, but he couldn’t drive his apartment to an interview. Since the landlord had no empathy for Peter’s plight, he’d let it be known that after eight more days of unpaid rent, he’d evict both tenant and cat. And things got worse. Peter had just one more week to find enough money to service his mother’s mortgage commitment or risk foreclosure. Recalling a bit of high school French, he summed up these sentiments with a rueful chuckle: “Sur moi le deluge.”

In his bathroom, prepping for yet another day of defeat, Peter stared at the mirror and spoke to his reflection: “Hello. My name is Neil. I want to work for you. I will do anything. What? The job pays a buck-fifty an hour? No problem, so long as there is ample opportunity for advancement.”

Pulling his tie knot to his throat, he wondered if it was strong enough to make an adequate noose. Next, Peter imagined his slim wallet saying: feed me. “Sarcasm’s a good thing,” he said. “Shows I’m resilient through thick and thin.” Once he finally finished dressing, he approved. He was jobless but looked prosperous. As he exited the bathroom, the phone rang, piercing the dull air. Peter veered towards the extension on the bedside table, but considered not answering. Why bother? The string of bad news was endless. Would this be any different?

He stood along the west-facing wall and window and listened to the swoosh of speeding cars. At night, he pretended this never-ending traffic was rolling surf. He wished, however, the waves didn’t honk every few seconds. Flipping a mental coin on the fifth ring, he elected to pick up. When Jason Ayers said, “Hello,” Peter immediately wanted to reconsider his decision.

“I spoke with Jerome Smitham,” Ayers began. “He told me you were interested in finding your own job. Any success?”

Peter stared at a dark smudge on the wall. “It’s an avalanche of opportunity,” he said. “There’s this assistant manager’s job at a Jack in the Box restaurant. I’d make six bucks an hour and report to a nineteen-year-old. I’m considering it. Paper delivery routes are available. Also frozen banana dipper at the amusement park. Lots of things. I’m sorting out the opportunities.”

“At least you’ve kept a sense of humor.”

“Gallows humor. I’m looking at an eviction notice. With rents having escalated, my landlord is dying to get me out of here.”

“Sounds bleak.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Jerome says you’re behind on Hannah’s mortgage payments. How about letting me handle those?”

“No thanks, Mr. Ayers. You’ve done enough. Mr. Smitham told me you paid my tuition when Mom ran short of money.”

“Jerome’s got a big mouth.”

“Anyway, thanks.”

“That was the only money Hannah ever took from me, and she only did so because . . .” The voice faded to nothing.

“I’m glad he told me,” Peter said. “I owe you for a lot of things.”