Ransom (11 page)

Chapter 8

Peter Morgan called
every contact he'd ever had in San Francisco before he left, hoping to find a job, or at least line up some interviews. He had just over three hundred dollars in his wallet, and he had to show his parole agent that he was doing his best. And he was. But within his first week back in the city, nothing had panned out. People had moved, faces had changed, people who remembered him either wouldn't take his calls, or did and fobbed him off, sounding stunned to hear from him at all. Four years in a normal life was a long time. And almost everyone who'd ever known him knew he had gone to prison. No one was anxious to see him again. And by the end of the first week, Peter realized he was going to have to lower his sights dramatically, if he wanted to find a job. No matter how useful he had been to the warden while he was in prison, no one in Silicon Valley, or the financial field, wanted anything to do with him. His history was too checkered, and they could only imagine he'd have learned worse tricks than the ones he knew previously, after four years in prison. Not to mention his predilection for addiction, which had ultimately brought him down.

He inquired at restaurants, then small businesses, a record store, and finally a trucking firm. No one had work for him, they thought he was overqualified, overeducated, one man openly called him a smart-ass and a snob. But worse than that, he was an ex-con. He literally could not find work. And at the end of the second week, he had forty dollars in his wallet, and not a single prospect. A tortilla shop near the halfway house offered him half of minimum wage, in cash, to wash dishes, but he couldn't live on it, and they didn't need to pay him more. They had unlimited numbers of illegal aliens at their disposal, who were willing to work for pennies. And Peter needed more than that to survive. He was feeling desperate as he flipped through his old address book again, and when he started at the beginning for the tenth time, he stopped at the same place he always did. Phillip Addison. Until that moment, he had been determined not to call him. He was bad news, and always had been, in every way, and had caused trouble for Peter before. Peter had never been absolutely sure in fact that he hadn't been responsible for the drug bust that had sent him to prison. Peter had owed him a fortune, and was using so much cocaine himself that he had no way to repay him, and still didn't. For whatever reason, Addison had chosen to ignore the debt for the past four years. He knew there had been no way to collect while Peter was in prison. But with good reason, Peter was still leery of him and worried about reminding Addison of the outstanding debt. There was no way he could repay him or ever would, and Addison knew that.

Phillip Addison owned an enormous company openly, it was a high-tech stock listed publicly, and he had half a dozen other, less legitimate, companies he kept concealed, and extensive connections in the underworld. But someone like Addison could always find a place for Peter in one of his shadier companies, and if nothing else, it was work, and decent money. But Peter hated to call him. He had been sucked in by him before, and once he had you, for whatever reason, he owned you. But there was no one else to call at this point. Even gas stations wouldn't hire him. Their clients pumped their own gas, and they didn't want a guy fresh out of prison handling their money. His Harvard MBA degree was virtually useless to him. And most of them laughed at the warden's reference. Peter was truly desperate. He had no friends, no family, no one to call, no one to help him. And his parole agent told him he'd better find work soon. The longer he was out of work, the closer they would watch him. They knew the kind of pressure it put on parolees not to have money, and the kind of activities they resorted to in desperation. Peter was getting panicked. He was nearly out of money, and he had to eat and pay rent, at least.

Two weeks after he'd stepped through the gates of Pelican Bay, Peter sat staring at Phillip Addison's number for nearly half an hour, and then picked up the phone and called him. A secretary told him Mr. Addison was out of the country, and offered to take a message. Peter left his name and number. And two hours later, Phillip called him. Peter was in his room looking grim, when someone shouted up the stairs that there was a call for him from some guy called Addison. Peter ran to the phone, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It could be the beginning of disaster for him. Or salvation. With Phillip Addison, it could be either.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Addison said in an unpleasant tone. He always sounded like he was sneering. But at least he had called him. And quickly. “When did you wash up on the beach? How long have you been out of prison?”

“About two weeks,” Peter said quietly, wishing he hadn't called him. But he needed the money. He was down to fifteen dollars, and his parole agent was keeping the heat on him. He had even thought of going on welfare. But by the time he got it, if he did, he'd be starving, or homeless. He realized now that that was how those things happened. Desperation. No options. And there was no question in his mind that it could happen. Phillip Addison was his only option at the moment. Peter told himself that as soon as he got something better, he could always dump him. What he was worried about and trying not to focus on were the shackles Addison put on those he helped, and the unscrupulous methods he used to keep people beholden to him. But Peter had no choice. There was no one else to call. He couldn't even get a job washing dishes for a decent wage.

“What else did you try before you called me?” Addison laughed at him. He knew the drill. He had other ex-cons working for him. They were needy, desperate, and loyal, just like Peter Morgan. Addison liked that. “There's not much work out there for guys like you,” he said honestly. He didn't pull any punches. “Except washing cars or shining shoes. Somehow, I can't see you doing that. What can I do for you?” he said, almost politely.

“I need a job,” Peter said bluntly. There was no point playing games with him. He was careful to say he needed work, not money.

“You must be down to your last buck if you called me. How hungry are you?”

“Hungry. Not hungry enough to do anything ridiculous. I'm not going back to prison, for you or anyone. I got the point. Four years is a long time. I need a job. If you have something legitimate for me to do, I'd really appreciate it.” Peter had never felt so humble, and Phillip knew it. He loved it. Peter didn't mention his debt to him, but they were both aware of it and of the risk Peter had taken when he called him. He was that desperate for work.

“I only have legitimate businesses,” Addison said, sounding huffy, as he ruffled his feathers. You never knew if a line was wired, although as far as he knew, he was on a safe line. He was on an untraceable cell phone. “You still owe me money, by the way. A lot of it. You took down a lot of people when you went down. I ended up having to pay them all off. If I hadn't, they'd have come after you and killed you in prison.” Peter knew it was possibly an exaggeration, but there was some truth to it. He had borrowed money from Addison for his last buy, and never paid it back when he got arrested, and they confiscated the bulk of the shipment before he sold it. In real terms, he knew he probably owed Addison a couple of hundred thousand dollars, and he didn't deny it. For whatever reason, Addison hadn't collected. But they both knew Peter owed him.

“You can take it out of my paycheck, if you want. If I don't have a job, I can't pay you back at all.” It was a sensible way to look at it, and Addison knew it was true too, although he no longer expected to recoup the money. It was one of those losses that happened in that kind of business. What he liked about it was that Peter had an obligation to him.

“Why don't you come in and talk to me,” he said, sounding pensive.

“When?” Peter hoped it would be soon, but didn't want to push. And the secretary had said he was out of the country, which was probably a smokescreen.

“Five o'clock today,” Addison said, without asking if it was convenient for him. He didn't care if it was or not. If Peter wanted to work for him, he had to learn to jump when Addison told him to. Addison had fronted money for him before, but he had never actually employed him. This was different.

“Where do I go?” Peter asked in a dead voice. He could still say no if whatever Addison offered him was too outrageous, or too insulting. But Peter was fully prepared to be insulted, and used, and even mistreated. As long as it was legal.

Addison gave him the address, told him to be on time, and hung up on him. The address he gave Peter was in San Mateo. He knew it was where he held his legitimate business. He had a high-tech company that had been a mammoth success at first, and had trouble after that. It had gone up and down over the years, and had been booming at the height of the dot-com craze. The stock prices had fallen drastically after that, just as everything else had. They made high-tech surgical equipment, and Peter knew he had also made some big investments in genetic engineering. Addison himself was both an engineer and had a medical background. And for a while, at least, he had been thought to be a genius with money. But eventually, he had proven that like everyone else, he had clay feet, and he had overextended himself pretty badly. He had shored up his own finances by running drugs out of Mexico, and the bulk of his net worth now was in crystal meth labs in Mexico, and a land office business he did selling heroin in the Mission. And some of his best clients were yuppies. They didn't know they were buying it from him, of course, no one did. Even his own family thought he ran a respectable business. He had a house in Ross, children in private schools, he served on all the respectable charity boards, and belonged to the best clubs in San Francisco. He was thought to be a pillar of the community. Peter knew better. They had met when Peter was in trouble before, and Phillip Addison had quietly offered to help him. He had even supplied the drugs at discount rates at first, and told Peter how to sell them. If his own use hadn't gotten out of hand, and his judgment with it, Peter would probably never have gone to prison.

Addison was smarter than that. He never touched the drugs he sold. He was clever, and ingenious about how he ran his underground empire. Most of the time, he was a good judge of horseflesh. He had made a mistake in Peter, he had thought he was more ambitious than he was, and more devious. In the end, Peter was just another nice guy gone wrong, who had no idea what he was doing. A guy like him was a real risk to Phillip Addison, because he had all the wrong instincts. Peter had been a petty criminal, forced into it by circumstance and poor judgment, and eventually his own addiction. Addison was a major criminal. For him, it was a lifetime commitment. And for Peter, only a pastime. But in spite of that, Addison thought he could use him. He was smart, well educated, and had grown up with the right people in the right places. He had gone to good schools, was good-looking and presentable, had married well, even if he had screwed it up. And a Harvard MBA degree was nothing to sneeze at. When Peter and Phillip Addison had met, Peter even had the right connections. Now he had blown them, but if he could get on his feet again, with Phillip's help, Addison thought he could be useful. And with what he'd learned in prison in the last four years, perhaps even more so. He had been an amateur conman before, an innocent gone wrong. But if he'd turned pro, Addison wanted him, no question. What he needed to assess now was what Peter had learned, what he was willing to do, and how desperate he was at the moment. His minor claims of only wanting to work legally were of no interest to Phillip. He didn't care what Peter said. The question was what would he do, and the debt he still owed was only a plus in their dealings, from Phillip's viewpoint. It gave him a hold over Peter that appealed to Phillip immensely, and a lot less to Peter. It also hadn't gone unnoticed by Addison that Peter had never divulged his name or exposed him once he was arrested, which showed that he could be trusted. Addison liked that about Peter. He hadn't taken anyone down with him when he went down. It was the main reason why Addison hadn't had him killed. Peter was, in some ways at least, a man of honor. Even if it was honor among thieves.

Peter rode the bus to San Mateo wearing the only clothes he now owned. He looked neat and clean, and had gotten himself a decent haircut. But all he had to wear were the jeans and denim shirt and running shoes they'd given him in prison. He didn't even own a jacket, and he couldn't afford to buy a suit for the interview. As he reached the address on foot, he felt overwhelmed with trepidation.

And in his office, Phillip Addison was sitting at his desk, reading through a thick file. It had been in a locked drawer in his desk for over a year, and was a life's dream for him. He had been thinking about it for nearly three years now. It was the only project he wanted Peter's help with. And whether or not he was willing to do it was of no interest to Phillip. Whether he was capable of pulling it off was the only question. This was the one thing he was not willing to risk, or do badly. It had to be done with the precision of the Bolshoi Ballet, or the surgical instruments he made, with the infinite pinpoint perfection of a laser. There was no room here for slippage. Peter was perfect for it, he thought. It was why Addison had called him back. He had thought of it the moment he got the message. And when his secretary told him Peter was there, he put the file back in the locked drawer, and stood up to greet Peter.

What Peter saw when he entered the room was a tall, impeccably groomed man in his late fifties. He was wearing a custom-made English suit, a handsome tie, and a shirt that had been made for him in Paris. Even his shoes were shined to perfection when he came around the desk to shake Peter's hand, seeming not to notice the garb Peter wore, which he wouldn't have deigned to wash his car with, and Peter knew it. Phillip Addison was so smooth, he was like a greased marble egg sliding across the floor. You could never get a grip on him, or get the goods on him. No one ever had. He was above suspicion. And it made Peter feel uneasy to find him so friendly. His mild threats about the money Peter owed when he called seemed to have been forgotten.