Dirt

Chapter 55

Richard Hickock had just finished a sandwich at his desk when he heard the fax machine ring in the outer office. His secretary was at lunch, so he got up and walked through the large double doors that separated him from his four office workers and checked the machine. As he watched, a single sheet of paper was fed into the bin. He picked it up.

DIRT

Greetings, earthlings! Time for the BIG story!

Those of you who have followed the riches-to-riches career of Richard Hickock, and who may have admired the taste and style of his many publications, might like to know about the underside of Dickie’s paper empire.

Our Dickie owns a corporation you never heard of, one called WINDOW SEAT. Remember that name, because you’re going to be reading a lot about it, though maybe not in Dickie’s papers. WINDOW SEAT, which is operated on a day-to-day basis by Dickie’s brother-in-law, Martin Wynne, is a holding company based in Zurich that holds interests in publications as diverse as The Infiltrator and two equally lascivious European tabloids, one in London, one in Dusseldorf. So while spouting off about journalistic integrity, Dickie is licking the cream off a pie that also contains three gay porn magazines, and an Internet business that sends out photos of charmingly posed, quite beautiful children in the arms of less charming grownups.

These “organs” are pumping cash, at the current rate of $70,000,000 a year, straight into bank accounts in the Caymans and in Zurich. (We have the account numbers, for those who are really interested.) What we know will shock you to the core is that our own dear Internal Revenue Service has never seen so much as a sawbuck in taxes on these swill-gotten gains! (Admit it, aren’t you shocked?)

Just in case there are any doubters among you, we’ve prepared a dozen packets containing chapter and verse and addressed them to some of our nation’s leading newspapers and television networks, not to mention the boys and girls at the IRS. Once these are sent, we predict that less than twenty-four hours will pass before Dickie is in either a federal lockup or Brazil! Stay tuned for more!

P.S. Dickie, the above copy is for your eyes only. To prevent those packets from going out, call the number below before five today, which is when Federal Express is due to pick them up, It’s a cellular phone, so don’t try to trace its location.

Before Hickock was halfway through this bulletin, his bowels were turning to water. He finished reading it in his private john, and when he read the postscript, his relief was palpable. He finished up in the john, locked the door to his office, and called the number.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hickock,” a pleasant voice said.

“Who else did you send this to?” Hickock demanded.

“Just you, just this once, if you follow instructions. Got a pencil?”

“Yes.”

“Write this down very carefully,” the voice said, “because it would not react to your benefit if you made a mistake.”

“Go ahead.”

“Before the close of business today you are to wire-transfer the sum of two million dollars from the Window Seat Zurich account to the Bank of Europe in Luxembourg, account number 353-67-6381. Got that?”

Hickock repeated the information.

“You’ve got just this one chance to get it right,” the voice said. “If you don’t make a mistake, the funds will be in Luxembourg tomorrow morning. If you do make a mistake, those packets of information will be at their destinations by three P.M. tomorrow, and you will spend the rest of your life either in prison or running.”

“Look, I’m not sure I can raise that much today.”

“You’re not listening, Mr. Hickock. And by the way, if you make any attempt to find us, or any attempt to bring pressure to bear on the Luxembourg Bank to find out who we are, it will be over for you instantly. We can still make a very nice buck by hawking the story, but we’d rather keep it clean and simple. Since this is the last time we’ll ever speak, Mr. Hickock, is there anything else you’d like to say?”

“Yes. I know who you are, Mr. Bruce, you and your brother, and I have your photographs.”

“Big mistake, Mr. Hickock; that little outburst cost you one million dollars. So that’s three million dollars to the Luxembourg account by the close of business. And if either of us should ever meet with an unfortunate accident, you may be sure that the packets will automatically be sent by our designated representatives. Good-bye, Mr. Hickock. I hope you make the right decision.” The connection was broken.

Hickock sat at his desk for half an hour, his face in his hands, sweat dripping onto the desktop. His mind raced like that of a cornered rat looking for escape. But there was no escape. Finally he turned to the computer on his desk and opened a fax file to his Zurich bank. He typed in the instructions for the wire transfer to Luxembourg, followed by the code known only to him and his banker. With a sob, he pressed the send key, then he sat back in his chair and wept. Less than a minute later, he sat bolt upright. Enrico Bianchi’s people were out looking for those two men now, he remembered, and if they found them…

“Oh, my God,” he said aloud. He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. The phone rang twice and an electronic voice said, “Leave… your… message… at… the… tone,” followed by a short beep.

“Message for Mr. Crown,” he said into the phone. “Contact Mr. Gold at the earliest possible moment, utmost urgency.”

“Thank… you,” the voice said.

Hickock hoped to God Bianchi was wearing his beeper. He sat back to wait for the call. A moment later, his pocket phone rang. “Yes?” he said.

“Dick, it’s Amanda. I’ve been doing some thinking and believe that before this business goes any further, you and I should sit down and talk about a new contract.”

“Amanda, we’ve just signed a contract,” he said, astonished. Then he began to see.

“Yes, but I think the circumstances call for something much more substantial, don’t you? After all, you and I have become something like partners, haven’t we?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, resignedly.

“Lunch? Twenty-One? Twelve-thirty?”

“I’ll be there.” He hung up. The phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“This is Mr. Crown. Do you wish to meet?”

“There isn’t time,” Hickock said. “Listen to me…”

“Stop, don’t talk. Same place as last time. One hour.”

“Yes,” Hickock said. The connection was broken.

Hickock struggled into his coat, headed for the door, then stopped and went back to his desk. He dialed a London number.

“Hello?” a familiar voice said.

“It’s Dick,” Hickock said. “Your son-in-law in L.A. has talked too much; he may have blown the lid off everything.”

There was much swearing at the other end of the line.

“Yes, I feel pretty much the same way. I may be able to head this off, but I thought you should know about Peebles. I’ll leave it to you how to handle him.”

“I know exactly how to handle him,” the man said.

Hickock hung up and ran for his meeting with Bianchi.