Landfall - 1. "After I'm Done, I'm Gonna Be a Dead Man. Deal?"

It was a dark and stormy night.

Seriously.

Gail force winds blowing with rain coming down in sheets making the freeway view like looking through glass blocks. Street lights out from a lightning strike. Wipers on the big Audi sedan not even keeping up. Fucking nasty.

Jacqueline and I had done a dinner date, then a movie—we'd been inside the theater when the storm hit. We'd started doing fairly regular dinner dates like this since our youngest boy headed off to college.

Jackie's still a looker. Pretty, striking woman when we were in college together, the years have only made her more graceful, more polished. Good dresser, always stylish, even at home in casual stuff. Still a nice body, too, with a great rack and long legs. Not as needy for sex as when we married during college senior year—not by a long shot, damnit. Know the sex drive slows down when ya get in your forties, but mine's still good, and hers left years ago. She's still the same warm heart with the easy laugh she had in college. We're still friends, and comfortable in our marriage.

Jackie's the beating heart of the family. She's always kept the home on an even keel, did a great job with our two boys, always got involved in the community, always laughed at my bad jokes, and makes me look good to our friends at the club. Hell, how can you not love someone like that?

Thankfully, although she never asked, I'm certain she knew I played—a lot. As a successful prominent banker, there's always women around, and I can spot 'em when they're the neediest. Even my secretary has no problems with my occasional crotch grab in front of her that invariably leads to a great blow job in my office. But that's just sex.

Guess the side play isn't the only secret. Jackie has no clue what I really do. That's good—better/safer for her.

Dammit, what's the freak in this truck next to me doing? He's got his arm out the passenger window in the flooding rain, motioning like he wants me to drop the driver's window or something. He's yelling something, too. I turn down the stereo while Jackie leans forward to try to make out what he's saying as the glass lowers.

Nutcase's arm goes back in the truck for a second—and there's now a gun in his hand. See the flash. Hear the bullet whoosh by my face. Hit the brakes. Truck speeds off while the car shudders to a stop on the slick pavement—the anti-lock brakes kicking in. Lean back catching my breath. Jackie's slumped over the passenger door, a bright red splotch of red in the center of her chest spreading rapidly.

Called 911. Jackie's not responding. Can't find a pulse. Report that, too. I”m yelling, trying to make her wake up. Promising God anything and everything I can think of to keep her here. Sirens in the distance getting closer as 911 stays on the line. Ambulance and cop car pull up simultaneously. EMT pulls Jackie out after checking her over quickly in the seat, they load her on the gurney, EMT's shaking their heads. My fear is true, and already know—she's dead.

Jackie? Gone? My Jackie!

Yeah, a heart can break in a second.

Cop is trying to quiz me about what happened, both of us soaking wet in the rain. Doesn't matter; not hearing half his words. Can't tell if it's tears on my face, or rain. Doesn't matter, either. Kinda numb. Finally get in his car—hafta get in the back, he won't let me in front. Shaking from the cold and adrenaline leftover from this fucking disaster. He's making notes on what's happened, gets a call, speaker announces he needs to bring me in for questioning. Huh? My wife gets shot and I'm being dragged into jail?

“I gotta go with my wife! Lemme out of here! Why am I being questioned? I just need to get to Jackie.......”

“I don't know why the questioning—just doing my job. And, we'll take care of your car, don't worry about that.”

Phone ringing in my pocket. Surprised it still works after getting soaked. Caller ID blocked.

“We won't miss next time.” Click.

SHIT!

I'm the reason Jackie's dead—it was me they were after. Knew I'd pissed off my bosses when I refused the last transactions they'd shipped me, but been with 'em long enough, figured they knew I had good reason to turn 'em down. I'd explained it enough times, thought they understood—but my refusal to go forward on the transactions was apparently viewed as rebellion, not good business sense.

Yeah, I'm a banker. Yeah, started off in marketing, became a loan officer. And yeah, been with 'em since the lean years out of college and grad school. I was something of a whiz kid about making loans, and documenting the shit out of 'em. Eventually my real career developed with 'em—making bogus loans for this mob-owned bank. Perfectly documented. We could launder money from other operations through our loan office, collect the loans back at some point, make interest, and the banks' “goodwill” on the balance sheet would go up with the extra “interest” we'd get. Yeah, “goodwill”, that simple accounting entry, could cover multitudes of funny money transactions—as long as it wasn't really big amounts posted all at once. Had to dribble 'em in. As long as it stayed in the “reasonable” amount—depending on the bank examiner. And we could buy some of 'em off, supervisors mostly, to keep regulatory questions down.

I'd done well. Advanced to Senior Lending and Operations VP of the bank. Board seat. And generally had the ear of the top guys on the board. Nice house in a prestigious area in one of the nicer suburbs outside Dallas. Company car. And a fat expense account.

I'd also done well making loans that were “shakier”. Either the collateral didn't measure up, or the guys getting the loans weren't solid. Always collected on those, though. After I'd advanced high enough, the bank provided me with some “collectors”. Sam and Charlie were rough enough they'd scare anyone into paying back with outrageous interest rates. Hell, truth be told, they were gay leathermen—always wore some leather when you'd see 'em, and had no problem with roughing up guys. Shit, some of the stuff they'd put 'em through sounded like kinky gay porn; they always laughed about it all, and had a gleam in the eyes anytime they got new assignments.

I'd refused to make a couple or 3 bogus loans last week. I'm authorized up to $5 million on my signature, $15 million with any other senior loan officer. The Senior VP of Finance had told me the federal examiners were raising eyebrows—we'd done some big accounting entries, and our gambling and pot distribution operations were raking in the cash--”faster than we can hide it” he'd said. He recommended to me that we not make any more “loans”.

Obviously, there's political stuff going on in the bank. The other senior loan officer signed off on it, and the Finance guy denied his conversation with me to the Board chairman. Even hinted that it was my idea to not sign. Since he was the brother of the board chair, his loyalty wasn't questioned—mine was.

Pulled up to police headquarters, cop let me out of the back seat. Went inside, was escorted to an interrogation room. Office brought a cup of really lousy coffee, my head's pounding, I'm soaking wet—and where have they taken Jackie? I waited there maybe 30 minutes before a suited cop with an ID badge in his breast pocket came in. Intense look on his face.

He stuck out his hand to shake mine. “I'm David Alexander, I'm with the FBI. We've got a proposition for ya, Frank.” Tough, no-nonsense looking guy. Maybe 6'5”, 225. Solid, filled out the door frame. Square jawed with an overly active five o'clock shadow. Good looking bastard—looks like a sheriff in those old black and white movies. Electric blue eyes. Well dressed. And every strand of jet black hair in place. Obviously, a stickler for details.

“Proposition? The only proposition I wanna hear is what you're gonna do to the guys who killed my wife! And when am I getting out of here—I've gotta take care of Jackie.”

“Hold on, Frank. Hear me out. We know you didn't kill you wife. We know your bosses did. They were after you, Frank. You've got a five hundred thousand dollar contract out on you. You've pissed 'em off—and they can't let you get away. You know everyone, and know too much about their operation. They're gonna make sure you're a dead man.”

Hell, didn't know about the contract. Didn't know about how pissed/scared they were about me. I'm still listening.

“Yeah, we know your role, Frank. You've been making bogus loans in addition to the shitty legit loans. Yeah, we know about your boys' collection methods. We have an insider who keeps us up to date on you and your organization's activities. That is, until your boys got him yesterday morning and messed him up. They've worked him over badly—and it hasn't ended for him yet. But we'll get him out of the mess he's in.” If Sam and Charlie got a hold of him, yeah, he's gonna be fucked up. And David looked pretty damn downcast talking about what they'd done to his guy.

“We need your help, Frank. We've got some of the documentation, and some of the witnesses to finalize our case against the mob that runs the bank. All we need to make a slam dunk is what you know and your testimony in court.”

“Here's the deal: Now's the time for you to get out and get away. With that kind of bounty on your head, it's just a matter of time 'till they get to ya. And if they can't get to you, they'll get your boys to get to you. You cooperate with us, we'll take the bosses down with your testimony. We'll put ya in witness protection, new identity, new job—maybe not the same as you've got, but enough you can live. We'll let ya walk away with the cash you've stacked away, and proceeds from sale of your house. We'll take care of a car for ya. Hell, we can give ya the necessary surgery to modify your face so you can hardly be recognized. We're gonna do what it takes to protect you.”

Long silence. He's waiting.

He's right about all of it. Bastard knows too damn much about me. Yeah, I do know their entire operation, the players, the methods. Yeah, if it's not one of their people that get me, it's some other goon on the street. And my boys, dammit, will never be safe. They already got Jackie.

My boys are starting their adult lives. Trey is a junior, may go professional with his football career; the NFL has been watching him. Corey's finishing up his freshman year, loves the swim team, and is doing great in his pre-med studies. Both are seriously dating. Trey has a great guy he's dated for the last couple of years. And Corey has been dating the same gal since his freshman high school year. And, they're gonna be targets—hell, maybe even be targets in witness protection, too damn hard to hide 'em. Plus, their lives would be totally changed, and their plans out the window.

“What about my boys, David? Where do they fit in all this?”

“We'll do the best we can with 'em. They'll hafta leave their current university, and move elsewhere. We'll get 'em places at other top 10 schools, but it'll be across the country from where they are. Trey's football will be out—he can't hide, and be an NFL prospect too. Corey, we can make work, his major can work anywhere he wants to go. Of course, their romantic interests can't know. And, they'll hafta be at separate schools. There's too much likelihood of them being spotted if they're on the same campus like now.”

Damn. They're so close, being separated will kill 'em. And losing Trey's football career may sucker punch him so badly, he'll be at loose ends for years.

“What kind of time frame are we talking about here?”

“Once you give the word, we can have a grand jury convene in a week, maybe 10 days. The trial will be a month or less after. Trust me, Frank, this is big, and the Bureau and Justice departments are throwing their full force into getting this done, and done quickly. And, shit, it's a big deal for you, too—and we know it. And, just so you know, unless you've got objections, I'm your primary contact and “handler”. You won't go through anyone, you'll work with me directly.” A small upturn at the corners of his mouth on that. He's a pro, and he's comfortable with it. And, remarkably, despite how sudden all this is, I'm comfortable with his direct approach, and methodical nature.

“When do you need my answer, David?”

“As soon as possible. Every moment's delay gives 'em just that more time to take you out, or grab the boys. And, we've gotta get our man away from your collectors—if there's still a man in there. They've really fucked him over.” He grimaced. Second time he's mentioned how badly they've messed with him. There's more to that story, but I'll hafta find out later.

”I”m not pushing, Frank, I know this is big, and you've not even dealt with Jackie's death—but you also know this is the right thing to do, and the sooner the better.”

He's right. But that's a lot to do to my boys—bastards have already taken Jackie from me, now they're taking my boys' safety and future? And no one can really guarantee my boys' safety.

“Look, lemme think about it. You got somewhere I can grab a smoke?” Realized I'm shaking, and it's not the damp clothes. System overload.

David points out the route to the smoking area behind the building. Another cop accompanies me, makes small talk along the way, and as soon as we exit the back door, he pulls out a cig and lights up. He needs his smoke, too.

My brain is running far too fast—but David is right. I gotta decide this now.

My cop escort looks at me. “You ok, buddy? Looks like you got the weight of the world on ya.”

“I'll be ok. My wife just died, guess that's still settling in.” No point into going into anything with this guy, despite how nice he may be. Just another secret I'll hafta carry.

“Shit, sorry, man! I'm having another smoke. You want another, or you ready to go back in?” Yup, he is a nice guy.

Stayed for another smoke, thought through the options, made my decision. Now back inside to the interrogation room. David is waiting.

“I'll do it—I'll testify. We'll finalize all the details, but we're doing this my way.” I quickly sketched out my thoughts, David nodding.

“But after I'm done, I'm gonna be a dead man. Deal?”