“This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to know?”
“How about this one?”
A forty-something man walks out in a soiled work uniform just before he climbs into a utility truck.
“Clearly a hard worker. Looks local, and he’s probably all about providing for his family. This is wrong. I get what I said was generalizing but—”
“Where’s the criminal, Cecelia?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about this guy?” Tobias juts his chin toward a suit walking in.
“I don’t know!”
“Then keep looking.”
I search our conversation until I realize I’ve been looking at the people, not the building itself. “It’s the bank, isn’t it?”
“You think organized crime is as bad as it gets?” He says, staring up at the logo before turning to me. “Ask yourself this. Why is a twenty-year-old employee feeling threatened enough by management to bring her elderly grandma into the branch to open a second bank account she doesn’t need?”
“Because it’s her job?”
“It’s so her granddaughter can reach her eight accounts a day quota so she can keep her job. Because there were thousands just like her in small towns, who thought they were signing on to be a part of a well-known bank with a stellar reputation and only a week or so in, found out they were dancing chickens. Every day they felt pressured to open accounts. A ploy by the powers that be to drive up stock prices to an untouchable status, to fatten an overstuffed cow because Midas rich wasn’t fucking rich enough. Some resorted to opening accounts for dead people. This happened every day for years, all the while these people, these low-level employees, desperate for a paycheck, were being mentally abused to the point they committed criminal acts.”
“I bank here.”
“Then you’re contributing to the problem without being aware of it. It all trickles from the top. If you think the bad guys are the ones selling dimes on the street, that’s nothing compared to these fucking crooks. And the sad part is that some of the current customers wouldn’t blink if it were brought to their attention, because it’s someone else’s problem. Their money is covered federally, so very few give a fuck if they’re banking with a known and exposed criminal. But if enough of those customers cared, they wouldn’t be getting away with it. But they did and still are. The higher-ups should have been crucified for what they did. There was a hearing. They paid a hefty fine, one that did absolutely nothing to hurt their bottom line. The CEO stepped down after the hearing, but no jail time was served, and here they are today, still in fucking business.”
He focuses back on the bank, a clear look of disdain on his face.
“You want to find real criminals? Follow the money. Always follow the fucking money. I’m not saying none of it was earned legitimately, but I’m saying those that did earn it legitimately are grouped with those who didn’t. It truly is a small world once you connect the dots. It’s an incestuous mess. Everyone has fucked everyone at some point, and most of them stay in bed together for the same reason.”
“You’re talking about the one percent? The wealthiest.”
“That’s where it gets tricky because that trickles from the top too.”
“This really happened, and they got away with it?”
He slowly nods. “But most people are paying attention to Janet Jackson’s halftime nipple peepshow or something similar because it takes the focus away from the real thieves.”
“A distraction?”
“They create them and at times, pay for them. The media is easily bought or influenced by the same people occupying the same fucking bed, and the world is kind enough to take care of the rest.”
He turns the car over and takes off out of the parking lot. I study him while he drives and can’t help the shift in my contempt. He’s fed up. Not just for the plant workers in this town but for everyone within reach of the vultures who prey on all unsuspecting citizens, daily. And I’ve indirectly been in bed with this criminal since I was old enough to open a bank account.
“So, I close my account, and that’s supposed to make a difference?”
“You close your account and you feel better about the part you play in it. You tell ten people about it, and maybe two listen and close their accounts. That’s the hard way, the slower, more painful process, and in the end, they’ll still win.”
“So, what would you do?”
“Aim for the head, not the foot.”
I mull it over and turn to him, his thick, dark lashes my focal point. “If you don’t trust me, then why are you so intent on making me understand?”
“We made a deal. I’m sticking to it. If you’re asking if I have better things to do, the answer is yes, I fucking do. You asked about vetting, but I can count on one hand the people who know who you really are.”
He clicks his signal at the stoplight and turns to me. “Those people at the parties, they all have a part to play that has nothing to fucking do with the foot.”
Roman. My father is part of the foot.
“So, they’re all looking for ways to get the head of the monster?”
His eyes linger on me for long seconds, taking me in in my shorts and tank before he floors the gas.
His business with Roman is personal, but he’d just told me in so many words that dear old dad is just the tip of the iceberg. I asked Tobias not long ago just how big this was, how far this went, and he just gave me a bird’s eye view…from space.
Chess, again. But this time I studied up a little. I move to take one of his pawns and I catch the amused expression in his gaze when he realizes it.
“Best summer ever,” I grumble as he swishes the ice in his glass.
“What will you do when it’s over?”
“I’m sure you know of my college plans.”
“I’m aware,” he moves a pawn as a thick lock of hair falls across his forehead. I ignore the sudden urge to reach out and push it away. “But what will you do?”
“After? Not sure yet. Definitely not following my father’s footsteps in the family business, not that you’re giving me much of a choice.”
“You couldn’t care less about his company.”
“Not true, I care a great deal about the future of his employees.”
Silence passes as he swirls his rocks around before he speaks.
“Roman pulled a Zuckerberg just before he bankrupted his first business partner to gain control of their company. It was a small venture, but that move gave him enough monetary gain to play his first hand on a bigger gamble.”
I sit back, stunned by his revelation about my father’s dirty deeds. “When?”
“Years before you were born. This gained him his first enemy. Jerry Siegal. The irony? He’s making his comeback by being just as fucking crooked.”
I bite my lip and look up to see him watching me. “You’re sure?”
Another swish of the ice, one, two, three times in his glass before he drains the liquid and stands.
“So, do you sleep in the woods?”
He slips on his jacket. “I might.” He nods toward where I sit next to the fireplace. “Don’t touch the board.”