The Humanist Read online

  The newcomers, the bad guys with worse reputations, sat at their own tables, not lowering themselves to sit with Talon’s standard fair of patronage. Each had a box in front of them, no doubt full of chips, ready to play, ready to win. But the elite, the worst of the worst, the bosses of the bosses, the ones whose names strike fear into the hearts of their opposition—well, they weren’t in the room. They were off in their own room, playing their own game.

  I scanned my surroundings. There were cameras in every corner and evenly spaced out along the ceiling’s edges.

  At our table, our dealer (not Steve, or Isaac for that matter) shuffled the cards and prepared the first round. I wondered what fate had befallen our regular dealer. Cement shoes? Bullet in the skull? Worse? I doubted anyone would ever see him again. Isaac was most likely carved up, his body parts fed to pigs or dumped in twenty different parts of the city.

  I flicked open my box to reveal my meager rations. A lot more than last time, but a lot less than everyone else. I would have to work very hard to get through the night and not have my ass end up in debt to the house. By the house, I of course mean Talon.

  The night breezed past in a hazy dream of cards, liquor, and playing chips. I won some hands, lost others. This time, I was left alone by the group—a far cry from their hazing efforts the previous week. No one accused me of cheating. No one got taken away to have their fingers removed by Talon. (Thank God—the thought of it still made me queasy.) In fact, everyone was damned well behaved. But people were still on edge. They didn’t want to fuck up, because with this crowd, Talon would make a spectacle of the punishment.

  At the end of the night, Talon’s regular clientele packed away their remaining chips in order to cash out with Tessa in the adjoining room. Talon mingled as they left, shook hands, patted shoulders, all under the watchful eye of Stone. It was always a successful night for the house, because with games like this, the house never lost.

  When the last had left, Talon pushed the doors shut and turned. He clapped his hands and addressed his twenty special guests with the flair of a Vegas entertainer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome, and congratulations.”

  I sat at the bar, fresh from ordering an old fashioned, and watched as Talon centered himself in the room. He was wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, revealing a white shirt underneath. Several gold necklaces hung from his scrawny neck. Pale pants, white socks, and sandals finished his ensemble.

  I wondered how someone like Talon could command a room, especially a room like this, where the people consisted of a who’s who of the national underworld. Then I remembered it doesn’t take looks and fashion, but rather action and balls. You say you’re going to do something, something menacing, and then go through with it when someone calls your bluff. That’s how he did it, that’s how he commanded respect, that’s how he could make an offer to his long list of contacts, enemies, business partners, and influencers, and they would show up to hear it.

  His audience clung to their respective tables. Fat cigars were lit by fatter, gold-ringed fingers. Serious women in pantsuits, sporting flowery lapels and cocktail dresses, sipped from tumblers. Their eyes shifted suspiciously, taking in everything and sizing up every aspect of the competition. Dinner jackets, bowties, hoodies, runners. The criminal elite knew nothing about social boundaries. If you had a talent and could spot a niche in the market, chances are you’d be successful.

  “I trust you’ve all had a successful evening.” A pause. “Except for you, Dennis!”

  All eyes followed Talon’s pointed finger across the room to a portly gent with gray sideburns and a salt-and-pepper goatee. “You motherfucker! You still owe me a hundred grand—so I hope you lost the lot!”

  Cheers and laughter came from across the room. The fat man clapped and bowed his head.

  “You can suck my fat dick!” he retorted, to more cheers.

  “I’ll leave that for Joey’s wife! Right, Joey?”

  Eyes shifted to the other side of the room where a man in white dinner coat with a protruding lavender collar saluted. Someone slapped him on the back.

  “Well, she wouldn’t suck your tiny dick, Talon, no matter how much you paid her!”

  A lady stood. She had a black top, black pants, and black high heels. A solid gold necklace hung around her neck. She pursed her black lips as the room fell silent.

  She threw a hand to Talon. “Well, I would suck your dick, Talon!” She proclaimed. “If I could find it in your vagina!”

  The room lost it. There were high fives and applause that would rival a Shakespeare playhouse.

  I couldn’t tell how much of that was in good faith, good banter, or dire warnings.

  Talon waved his hands to calm the ruckus.

  “Now, I appreciate you coming and listening to this proposal. I’ve told you enough to get you interested, but now it’s time to commit. And if there’s anything I know you can all do, it’s follow through on your word.”

  A guy in one corner spoke up: “But what are you getting out of this, Talon, huh? If we’re making a buck, I know you’re making ten!”

  “Don’t you worry about what I’m getting. You, Timmy “cheap-ass” Chaplin, should be thinking about how much you’re getting out of this. But you cock-suckers don’t want to hear that from me, so I’ve got this little fucker to tell you all about it.”

  He waved me forward, and I swallowed. It felt like I was entering a snake’s nest.

  “Atlas here is going to tell us all about it and answer all of your questions.” He put an arm around my shoulders. “And if he doesn’t, someone will get a big surprise when they open their cold box of fresh seafood tomorrow morning.”

  Claps from around the room. Dear God.

  I pulled out my phone and pressed on the screen.

  Everyone’s phone in the room buzzed, dinged, or played some outrageous ringtone. It sounded like an out-of-tune symphony; a cacophony.

  “Congratulations, everybody,” I said. “I just sent you a link. Once you click on it, you become part of The Humanist Network, the first and only one of its kind on this fine planet.”

  Everyone checked their devices.

  “I won’t bore you with the details, and I know Talon here has given you the basics. So, let me just point out the interesting elements. I have preloaded 848 profiles into the system: celebrities, entertainers, sporting heroes, top Fortune 500 CEOs, dignitaries from every state, members of Congress...even the president. I’ve assigned everyone a value based on a range of characteristics. For years, companies have been saying that their most valuable asset is their people, and now, people are the asset.”

  I proceeded to share the rules of engagement, the boring admin shit. Stuff like what they got, what I got, fees, dividends, and holding accounts.

  “Everything is stored on the dark web. Nothing is traced, nothing can be hacked. You are all ghosts. I run the system, and I’m the only one. And I should warn you, The Humanist Network has a dead man’s switch. If I don’t check in and enter a password every forty-eight hours, the system locks and distributes all your available funds to every known non-religious, public charity in the world. On top of this, all your information will be sent to every government agency and news outlet in the country.

  “Now I should point out, this isn’t a threat. This is a reality from part of the terms of our little relationship. You shouldn’t see it as a hindrance, mind you. No, this should give you peace of mind. This should give you an incentive to keep me out of harm’s way.

  “I trust these terms are acceptable to you,” I said, smiling. “But if they aren’t? Well, I can’t help you.”

  There was silence, and then a clapping of hands at the back of the room. The Devil stood (although you could hardly tell), applauding, a broad smile on his face. Others followed his lead.

  I had suddenly become very popular.

  Chapter 22

  Grant stares at me, hard. He has been sitting quietly, listening to me ramble on, waiting for
the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the injection of his character into the story.

  “You’ve been very patient, Grant. I appreciate that.”

  He doesn’t respond—just sits there with a blank look on his face. His cuffed hands fidget, and he spends a few seconds rubbing his fingers together and picking at his nails. Not much else to do, I guess. I, on the other hand, had been standing up and moving around, adding gestures and visuals to my story. I had waved my hands around and acted it out. I want him to understand. I need him to feel it.

  I clear my throat. “Weeks flittered by while—”

  “Is this going anywhere?”

  I pause, mid-sentence, and sit down. “Am I boring you, Grant?”

  “Yes. You don’t want me to go, but you’re not saying anything to keep me here.”

  “Well, I realize the conundrum—the paradoxical nature of your situation. But this is going somewhere. This will give you all the answers. I’ve told you that, right? I’m pretty sure I have.” I looked down at the table, searching the surface as if it held the answer.

  We look at each other.

  “How much money did you make?” Grant asks.

  “I don’t know. Enough.”

  “What was your address?”

  “None of your damn business,” I snap back. What’s with all the questions?”

  Grant leans forward. “Just get to it,” he says.

  I look up into his narrow eyes. Who was in control of all of this?

  “I’m in control here, Grant. I decide when I talk and what I talk about.”

  “Of course,” he relents. “Of course, you are.”

  “Of course, I am, dammit. I know exactly where I am and what I’m doing.” I think. Sometimes I wasn’t sure. Was this the right thing? It had to be because I was here.

  “So,” I continue, “as I was saying. The weeks. They flittered by.”

  “Why?”

  I pause again, stopping dead in my tracks. “Why what?”

  “I don’t understand—why?”

  “Why what?” I repeat.

  “They’re essentially betting on people’s fortunes, and they’re paying you for the pleasure. Why not just invest that money themselves in the stock market? Why not just bet their money on any number of completely legal activities?”

  “Because.”

  “Because?”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “Because.”

  “Just seems like a convoluted way to make money, that’s all I was saying.”

  I lean back in my chair, noticing how uncomfortable it is, and cross my legs. “Do you know the most powerful word in the English language?” I ask him. “It’s ‘because.’ There was a study done in the seventies. The word ‘because’ triggers a response in us so strong that we ignore everything that comes after.”

  “So, are you going to tell me why they invested in your little system?”

  I sigh. Loudly. Heavily. Obtusely.

  “You can take any answer you like: because they felt like it, because they saw an opportunity to make even more money in a closed system, because they can launder money, because bad people do bad things. There are many reasons. It doesn’t matter why they did things, just that they did them. You just have to accept it. Now, stop trying to find a reason or underlying meaning.”

  “I thought you wanted me to understand.”

  I shake my head. “Yes. I want you to understand how you came to be here. I don’t need you to know every aspect of the lead-up. That’s not why I’m telling you.”

  Grant parts his hands and pulls them apart from each other as much as he could, and nods. “Of course. Continue.”

  “Are you going to let me this time?”

  He clenches his lips shut. I’m sure if he were able, he would have zipped his mouth shut, turned the key in the lock, and tossed the key away.

  “Fine,” I continue. “I will. But because I want to, I need to. And not because you permitted me to do so.”

  I stand up and roll my arms over, loosening up my shoulders, looking like I’m swimming freestyle. I feel suppressed. “Don’t you just love to stretch your arms out, Grant? I mean, doesn’t it feel like you’ve been held down for so long, and just waving them around is pure relief?”

  I look at him, chained to the table.

  “Oh. Sorry about that. Maybe it’s all of this. The talking. Really getting it off my chest.”

  He remains silent, so I continue.

  “As I was saying, the weeks flittered by. I was having a positive cash flow in both directions. Money, dirty or otherwise, was being invested in The Humanist Network. I, in turn, took that, along with considerable legal funds, and invested those on the legitimate stock market. I pulled money from companies on the verge of collapse and injected funds into new up-and-comers. I was doing things before the market knew what was happening. I was at the forefront.

  “I didn’t see Tealson for days at a time. If my predictions—and I use that term loosely because I thought stuff might happen, versus me actually knowing them—kept paying off, he was happy, the company was happy, I was happy. More importantly, Talon was happy, and his band of merry men were at ease with their returns, along with their losses. When a celebrity married a Kardashian, their profile lifted. When a dodgy news source broke the story of a politician having an affair, their value decreased.

  “I didn’t see Sonja—there was no need to. Everything was humming along. The system was working. There were a few requests to include some foreign dignitaries, and I obliged. A few days later, they resigned when someone leaked photos of them with a scantily-clad escort to the press. Another wanted a YouTube singer on the cards, so I added them, and soon they signed a record deal. Someone else wanted a down-and-out child star who works at Starbucks on the books. So, I did. They ended up winning a four-million-dollar jackpot at a casino the next day.

  “Everything was going great. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. It’s like the sun stopped rising in the morning. The switch went from good to bad so suddenly, I thought I was dreaming. No one has a fall from grace like this. It was like I was in a slow-motion car crash, being extremely conscious of the world around me as the car spun on its axis mid-air, and anything that wasn’t tied down was floating. I knew what was coming. The crash. The impact. The pain.

  “Then, something interesting happened. There was a request to include Troy Ripley Rogers.”

  “Who’s Troy Ripley Rogers?” Grant mumbles.

  “You don’t know who Troy Ripley Rogers is? I’m not surprised. No one did. Well, very few people did, in the grand scheme of things. Rogers was a nobody. A low-level street dealer. Why, on earth, anybody wanted him in the network was beyond me. But who am I to say no to such things? I added him and gave him a very low value, as you would expect.”

  “So, what happened?” Grant asks, genuinely interested.

  “Well, remember there had been some new additions in recent times. Nobodies who became somebodies. A few people made a lot of money from those payoffs. Everyone else was watching. I often pictured them lying in bed with a dozen bought women, laying in the dark, their phone screen illuminating their faces, watching their investments rise and fall. Anyway, I guess a bunch of them saw a new face and wanted to jump on the bandwagon early. Executing without due diligence. Because not only did Roger’s value increase, but the police found him dead a day later. Nasty car accident. Decapitation. Gruesome. Makes me ill when I think about it.

  “Anyway, a lot of people lost a lot of funds—one of the by-products of such an event. I mean, they got their cents on the dollar return, as you would for a company that goes bankrupt, but the lion’s share came to me. Where I’m going with this is that a lot of people got pissed off. Someone had gamed the system, they thought. They thought they had found a loophole.

  “The problem was they were pointing fingers at Talon. And for some reason, Talon was pointing at me. I don’t know why he thought I had anything to do with it. I mean, who the hell am I? I’m a lot of things, but I�
��m not a murderer. Well, I wasn’t back then.”

  I look at Grant, and his face grows dark. It looks like someone had extinguished the overhead fluorescents.

  “You wanted to understand, Grant. This is what I want you to appreciate. So, listen up.”

  Chapter 23

  It was Thursday night, and Olivia and I were celebrating. We were enjoying the introduction to a long weekend. I can’t remember what the holiday was—federal or state—and it didn’t matter. A day off was a day off. We had been dancing in a club, grinding our bodies together amongst a writhing hoard of others. We might have dropped something while we were in there, but the base of the soundtrack had ripped through me like a torrent, my world a strobe of colors.

  She was wearing a little sleeveless black number and red heels. Her ass mesmerized me as she went to the bar to get water or some shots. I couldn’t remember what she said. She had been talking about her father’s birthday party over the weekend, some family gathering she wanted me to attend. I told her I would think about it, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for that kind of relationship. The only thing I was sure of was that I needed to take a piss.

  I was standing at the urinal, trying to keep myself upright, whispering a mantra to myself to keep me conscious. Right then, the bathroom door burst open and two men entered, rudely interrupting my meditation. I opened my eyes. There was a scuffling of shoes and some harsh words. From my peripheral vision, I could see one was backtracking quickly, his hands up, apologizing. The argument continued as I shook a few times and zipped up. I could hear a body being shoved against the wall. It was rough and raw.

  “When the fuck are you going to have the money, huh? It’s well past due!” A voice boomed.

  Fuck. Talk about déjà vu.

  “Stone?” I called out as I stepped away from the porcelain bucket urinals.