knowing the vindictive lengths to which Madeline might — or even could — go to sour his life and recovery of the money, Boyd had thought the safest route to take would be to disappear altogether, not even go near that seven hundred thousand by conventional means.
All he needed was for this Wang Chung character to hack his way down to the Cayman Islands bank and bring that money back up in such a way that it was accessible to Peter Wackermann. But it would have to be sprinkled into different accounts, lots of them, in relatively small sums, as federal law required all transactions in excess of ten thousand dollars to be reported to the IRS. He most definitely wanted to avoid notice by them.
“Would you trust this Wang Chung if it was your money?” Boyd asked. “Say once he has everything set up for me, as soon as we step out the door, what’s to keep him from going right back and transferring my money into his own accounts? It’s not like I’d have any legal recourse, is it?”
“Relax. He’s not so much a thief as he’s an anarchist. So by doing this job for you, he gets to stick it to the system. Don’t ask me what system, he’s never that specific. Just as long as some corporation suffers a loss, he’s happy, and he won’t have any interest in sticking it to you.”
“Yeah? If that’s how he gets his chuckles, why doesn’t he do this for me for free?”
“Scratch an anarchist, find an entrepreneur,” Derek said. “I never met one yet who’d rather burn money instead of a flag.”
*
By late evening, at Derek’s Altadena condo, Boyd was tucked away for the night in the spare bedroom with most of a celebratory bottle of champagne fizzing in his belly. He looked over his new driver’s license, trying to ramrod a mental connection between his handsome, mustachioed face and the name Peter Wackermann. Height: 5’7”. Damn. Should’ve thought to fudge an extra inch or two.
It occurred to him that his car was still registered to Boyd Dobbins. A small incongruity like that could trip him up badly down the road. Tomorrow he’d have to remember to ask Wang Chung about hacking into the Nevada Department of Motor Vehicles, to do some rechristening — if his five percent included that perk, as well. Dinky state bureaucracy, how hard could it be?
Boyd decided against trusting this to memory. Better to word-process a note to himself, something they would see as soon as he switched on the laptop tomorrow.
Boyd set the computer on his bed, thumbed the twin releases of the lid lock, tilted up the screen. Couldn’t remember having left a slip of paper in there last night, resting atop the keys.
It looked like Allison’s handwriting, if sloppier, as though she had written the note while drunk. Last night the sweet reek of Southern Comfort was obvious as soon as he’d opened the door after coming home from the casino. Allison had roused herself after he’d decided to catch a few winks on the couch before hitting the road?
Dear asshole, it read. He couldn’t figure this out at all. So maybe we never loved each other, but you at least owed me some basic respect, and that redhead harridan wasn’t it. Then a furious cloud where she’d begun to write something, then scratched it out. You can have your toy put back in shape whenever you’re ready to apologize. On your KNEES. If I feel like it. Then another scratch-out — her signature? — followed by some new terrorist’s moniker: The bitch you shouldn’t have betrayed.
“What are you talking about?” Boyd cried to the note. He switched on the computer, to see what she’d done. “I loved you!”
Truly, he had, loving nearly everything about her and trying daily to remind her what those things were. A veritable goddess, she was, if a little crazy in the head now and again. She had to realize he wouldn’t have invited just any woman to move to Vegas with him. And with Allison there’d even been the possibility of a future. Had she
All he needed was for this Wang Chung character to hack his way down to the Cayman Islands bank and bring that money back up in such a way that it was accessible to Peter Wackermann. But it would have to be sprinkled into different accounts, lots of them, in relatively small sums, as federal law required all transactions in excess of ten thousand dollars to be reported to the IRS. He most definitely wanted to avoid notice by them.
“Would you trust this Wang Chung if it was your money?” Boyd asked. “Say once he has everything set up for me, as soon as we step out the door, what’s to keep him from going right back and transferring my money into his own accounts? It’s not like I’d have any legal recourse, is it?”
“Relax. He’s not so much a thief as he’s an anarchist. So by doing this job for you, he gets to stick it to the system. Don’t ask me what system, he’s never that specific. Just as long as some corporation suffers a loss, he’s happy, and he won’t have any interest in sticking it to you.”
“Yeah? If that’s how he gets his chuckles, why doesn’t he do this for me for free?”
“Scratch an anarchist, find an entrepreneur,” Derek said. “I never met one yet who’d rather burn money instead of a flag.”
*
By late evening, at Derek’s Altadena condo, Boyd was tucked away for the night in the spare bedroom with most of a celebratory bottle of champagne fizzing in his belly. He looked over his new driver’s license, trying to ramrod a mental connection between his handsome, mustachioed face and the name Peter Wackermann. Height: 5’7”. Damn. Should’ve thought to fudge an extra inch or two.
It occurred to him that his car was still registered to Boyd Dobbins. A small incongruity like that could trip him up badly down the road. Tomorrow he’d have to remember to ask Wang Chung about hacking into the Nevada Department of Motor Vehicles, to do some rechristening — if his five percent included that perk, as well. Dinky state bureaucracy, how hard could it be?
Boyd decided against trusting this to memory. Better to word-process a note to himself, something they would see as soon as he switched on the laptop tomorrow.
Boyd set the computer on his bed, thumbed the twin releases of the lid lock, tilted up the screen. Couldn’t remember having left a slip of paper in there last night, resting atop the keys.
It looked like Allison’s handwriting, if sloppier, as though she had written the note while drunk. Last night the sweet reek of Southern Comfort was obvious as soon as he’d opened the door after coming home from the casino. Allison had roused herself after he’d decided to catch a few winks on the couch before hitting the road?
Dear asshole, it read. He couldn’t figure this out at all. So maybe we never loved each other, but you at least owed me some basic respect, and that redhead harridan wasn’t it. Then a furious cloud where she’d begun to write something, then scratched it out. You can have your toy put back in shape whenever you’re ready to apologize. On your KNEES. If I feel like it. Then another scratch-out — her signature? — followed by some new terrorist’s moniker: The bitch you shouldn’t have betrayed.
“What are you talking about?” Boyd cried to the note. He switched on the computer, to see what she’d done. “I loved you!”
Truly, he had, loving nearly everything about her and trying daily to remind her what those things were. A veritable goddess, she was, if a little crazy in the head now and again. She had to realize he wouldn’t have invited just any woman to move to Vegas with him. And with Allison there’d even been the possibility of a future. Had she
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