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“Bang,” Phil says.

His regal thumb and forefinger mimic the shape of a pistol.  He snaps his empty hand away from Steve’s forehead with imaginary recoil.  Diamonds on his ring reflect the fluorescent lighting like a miniature disco ball.  Phil smiles as Steve’s body crumbles to the floor.

Jimmy stands frozen.  Thank God Otter’s not here to see this.

Steve’s head smacks the dark marble with a sickening thud.  It doesn’t sound exactly like a bowling ball hitting an oiled lane, but it’s close.  It bounces.  The floor-splatter looks like a runaway bloody nose.  Black globs of burnt calamari decorate the crimson soup.  Steve’s dead, but his eyes are still opened, staring at me.

I withdraw, nearly dunking my ass in the urinal.  I peer down at the chunks of Steve sprayed across my custom-made dress shirt -- impressionist art on a canvas of white.  What just happened is implausible, yet here I stand smelling gunpowder.  Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve been involved in this type of incident.  I’m essentially an accomplice to murder.

My father was right when he said no amount of marble can cover the smell of piss.  Yet, here I am, stuck in the shitter with an enigmatic bond trader, a telepathic homicidal maniac, and a dead prognosticator of fiduciary fortitude.

I feel relieved, ironically, after the initial shock subsides.  Actually it’s an amalgam of relief and remorse –- if that’s possible.  I know that sounds horrible, but it’s two o’clock in the morning, I’m tired, and now I might not have to finish doctoring my trades before tomorrow after all.  Phil has inadvertently juggled my priority list.

“Well, that’s that,” Phil says, shifting his gaze back and forth between myself and Jimmy.  “I just removed the wrench from the works.  Life is good again boys.”  He bends over to admire his toil.  He checks his Rolex.  “Michael and Jimmy, you two clean this mess up and I’ll figure out where we go from here.  In the meantime, I’ve got to see a man about a ten-figure wire transfer.  We did a good thing here tonight boys.  Don’t forget our directive.  The ends justify the means and I can’t think of a better <i>end</i> than a couple of billion split six ways.”

Phil peers into the mirror.  He adjusts his tie, winks at Jimmy, and leaves the Men’s Room strutting like he’s sporting a ten-inch cock.  An incident like this is exactly the reason I didn’t want to expand the team.  We’re about halfway through the <i>job</i> and I still regret my decision to include Phil.

I’m staring at the pool of blood oozing from the back of Steve’s skull.  In the middle of his forehead there’s a bloody tunnel about the diameter of a golf ball.  In his claw is the crumbled amendment he refused to sign despite Phil’s adamant requests.

“That’s some crazy telekinetic shit,” Jimmy says, running his hands though his nine-inch afro.  “That was faah-gay-zee crazy.”  He tucks his tie into his shirt like a bartender.  “Hey.”  He steps over what’s left of Steve, momentarily loses his train of thought, and looks up from the corpse to me.  “It looks like we’re going to have to bury another set of clothes.  Did you finish entering those trades yet?”

“Are you kidding me?  Steve’s dead and you’re worried about the fucking trades.  He had a family, Jimmy.  He may have been a prick, but he had two fucking kids.”

“Yeah, and he couldn’t mind his own goddamn business.  He had some brains, but too much ego.  He wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.  Now he’s dead and we’ve got a body to dispose of.”

“Wow Jimmy, you’re a master of the obvious.  We’re white collar criminals, not murderers.  We are supposed to be embezzling.  Lately, I feel more like a contract killer.”  I pause; stare at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights, trying to think of a way out of this.  “Jesus Christ Jimmy.  You know the drill.  I’ll find the mop.  You grab the hand-truck and the over-sized garbage can.  We’ve got to get <i>him</i> out of here.”

“Yes Sir, right away sir, you da boss.  You da boss,” Jimmy says, disappearing through the double doors.  He’s annoyed with me, but somebody has got to take charge.  It may as well be me.  It’s always me.  I’ve known Jimmy since I was five-years-old.  He was four and could already read at an eighth grade level.  I love him to death, but sometimes I want to kick his teeth in.

I retire to a stall as soon as <i>dead</i> Steve and I are alone.  I sit on the toilet, pants still up.  I roll up my left sleeve, a tiny razor pops out of my wallet.  I use it to make a two-inch cut across the top of my forearm.  It’s deep.  My blood flows, sprinting from veins, pooling like a miniature blob from the old horror flick.

The three-week roller coaster ride finally comes to a halt.  I’m back in control.  I’m strong again and I can handle the situation.  My blood I’m not worried about.  I have plenty of <i>Steve</i> on me and soon enough I’ll be covered.  Carving up a body for disposal is nasty work.  At least I’ll have Jimmy to help me this time.

Five minutes later, back by the sink, I look down at what’s left of my Managing Director and back to the mirror.  I see a man much older than I remember.  Experts call cutting an unhealthy coping mechanism.  I tell the experts to fuck off.  Let them talk after trying to handle the pressures associated with embezzling several billion dollars coupled with two murders.  Some guys try meditation.  Some guys try yoga.  I prefer the razor.

“This is the life.”

***

Dana’s wearing these sexy tights over a black thong.  The tights are see-through with a paisley-like texture.  She’s horny.  At least she is when I first walk in, but that changes when she sees my appearance.  Dana can handle a lot, but seeing her boyfriend covered in dried blood is extreme, even for her.

Her belly protrudes from a black top that’s about four sizes too small.  She’s Goth, but uses it as an excuse to slack on the crunches and general exercise -- sex being the only exception.  Her plentiful hips and butt round-off a large hourglass figure.  Anyway, she loves her body.  I love it too.

She started out as my roommate, as an arrangement of convenience, back when I was poor.  It turned into a <i>relationship</i> of convenience -- at least at first.  Now I really care for her.  I love her.

Dana lives with me, works on her art, and allows me to pleasure her when she’s in the mood, which is frequently.  Dana’s also our best (and currently our only) phony custodian, responsible for falsely confirming receipt of billions in mortgage collateral to allow billions in real funds to be wired out of the firm’s account.

Despite the blood, I want to bury my face between her breasts.  I want her to dig those black polished nails into my back and maybe sit on my face for a while.  She’s helped me slowly wean myself off of the daily cutting.  Before I hooked up with her it was compulsive.  Now she helps me release the tension.  I’m still addicted, but better able to manage.

“Oh Jesus, Michael -- you're a mess.”  Dana says.  “This is getting ridiculous.  Don’t you think?”  She pauses.

Dana knows I’m into cutting.  She knows her Exacto Knife blades conveniently disappear whenever I’m around.

“You’re starting to look like a pin cushion, Michael.  I would’ve helped.”

“It’s not my blood,” I say.  Well, at least most of it isn’t.

“Oh God; not again, not Phil again,” Dana says.

***

It’s really incredible when you think about it -- the work that goes into one of these jobs.

Preparation.  Preparation.  Preparation.

First, an Investment Bank is duped into hiring my entire team.  The team consists of a trader on the desk -- Jimmy, a man in wire clearing -- Otter, a man in IT -- Tommy, and a man in operations -- myself.  That’s not to mention all of the outside coordination required, including Dana as our custodian.

Otter’s our wire man.  He’s got nerves of steel, but lacks a stomach for violence.  He’s aware of all the carnage to this point, but he hasn’t witnessed any of it.  The secondhand descriptions are always more antiseptic than reality.  It’s like watching news of a tragedy on television versus actually being there.  The viewers move on to the next commercial, while the witnesses are charred for life.

Jimmy is the wildcard when it comes to getting hired because he interviews like shit.  We’ve worked on it with him.  We’ve coached him.  Prodded him.  Taunted him.  It’s all for naught.  He doesn’t care.  He knows his resume reads like a winning lottery ticket.  He’s one of the top mortgage traders in the world, if not the top trader.  Ninety-nine percent of the time he’s the smartest fuck in the room.  Inevitably, whoever he’s interviewing with will cave and hire him.  The economics are too attractive to pass up, so he presents himself as the biggest jackass on the planet.  It’s all part of the rush.

The scam works like this -- all large mortgage originators use warehouse facilities as a financing vehicle.  Say an originator has a four billion warehouse facility with our bank.  They can pledge up to four billion of mortgages to us in exchange for funds.  They send the collateral to our custodian and we forward a wire to their bank account.  The originator uses the money to make more loans.  By having an insider at the mortgage originator plus a phony, yet convincing custodian, our team, if successful, will affect one very large wire transfer out of the firm and into our account.  Once the money hits, we re-route it about a thousand times via a system of Tommy’s creation.  Then we disappear.

Phil became a necessary addition to the team when the firm implemented procedural changes to prevent wire fraud -- specifically the kind of fraud we are trying to accomplish.  As an additional layer of security, the firm now requires a Managing Director’s signature on all wires over a billion.  Jimmy found Phil.

At first we thought we had a perfect match, even after we first witnessed the “Pitch,” which became our pet name for Phil’s special telepathic and telekinetic abilities.  We called it the Pitch, because he first used it like a sales pitch -- to convince any opposition to come around to his way of thinking.

It was only later, after his patience faltered, that he began to use the Pitch to destroy our opposition.

***

Jimmy’s at the table and won’t shut up.  He’s said the nonsense word “faah-gay-zee” about a thousand times.  He’s wearing a three thousand-dollar suit with a camouflage fishing hat, talking about a big score at a Foxwood’s poker table last night.  I want to punch him in the mouth, just to brush away some of the arrogance, but instead I take another slug of tasteless coffee and wait for Phil to arrive.

I’m on edge.  Except for Jimmy, we all are.  Without Phil we’ve pulled our scams a couple of times on a much smaller scale, if you count the debacle at Trumbull Capital.  We’ve got more money than we know what to do with, yet we can’t stop.  Otter alone has twenty million sitting in a couple Cayman Island accounts.  Shit, Jimmy’s got two hundred grand sitting in a coffee can in the middle of his kitchen table.  At some point it’s no longer about the money.  You do it just because you can.  Just because there’s nothing better to do.

To ask Phil to leave the team is the reason we’re here.  Myself, Tommy, Jimmy, and Otter –- we’re all waiting to drop the bomb.

The diner is a remote grease spot in Derby Connecticut.  The location was Phil’s suggestion.  I needed to ensure his attendance so I consented.

“What if he pulls his shit?” Tommy asks.  “What if he gives us the Pitch?”

“He’s a professional and he’ll take it like a professional.” Otter says.  “Especially since we’re still going to offer him a share of the take.”

Me, I’m not so sure.  The problem is I really don’t have much of a plan in the event things go sour.  I just don’t want to tell that to the team.

Phil walks in the front door.  He stops to extend a greeting to the manager behind the counter, as well as a few of the wait staff.  As always, Phil knows everybody.  As always, he’s dressed impeccably, wearing the only suit that trumps Jimmy’s.

“Hi Phil,” I say, as he reaches the table.  “What’s doing?”

Instantly, his demeanor changes.  The smile evaporates.  His eyes lock with mine. 

“Hello gentlemen.”

I attempt to speak, but he cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

“You know boys,” Phil says as he sits.  “When I first started out in the investment banking game I worked in operations, though not at Michael’s level.  I started in a more junior roll, funding residential mortgage warehouse lines.  I was bringing down about eighty-five thousand, all in, bonus and stock included.  I was pretty happy –- just a kid really.  Didn’t have too many expenses back then.  I was driving a shitbox, some old Toyota, but otherwise I was living large.  Drugs, booze, women, and power.  A taste of power.  Then one day my perception changed.

“I found out another of the funders, a lazy shit, I think his name was Jim Tuck, was pulling in a hundred and ten thousand.  We both had the same title.  He sucked, but he kissed the right asses.  He knew how to play the game.  This douche-bag was pulling in twenty-five large more than I was. 

“Well gentlemen, I wasn’t going to stand for that.  I learned how to influence big time players and make things happen.  I came out of my shell so to speak.  I embraced my hidden talent.  The one you gentlemen know only too well.  Two years later I found myself in middle management on the new business side in Asset Backed Finance.  I was making a couple of <i>little sticks</i> a year (two hundred thousand).  Things were good at first, but as you know I was working directly with traders who were making a couple of <i>big sticks</i> (two or three million).  The disparity was hard to accept.  It grated on me.

“I mean, these guys weren’t any smarter than I was, present company excluded,” He says, looking over to Jimmy.  “I’ve got to give Jimmy credit.  This fucking kid is a gem.  He’s the best Subprime residential mortgage trader on the planet.  I’m proud to work with him.”

“Phil,” I say, attempting to interrupt.  Phil would have none of it.  He was going to say his piece.

“I worked my way up to Managing Director and it still wasn’t enough.  That’s when I knew it.  I knew the only way I’d be happy was to outsmart them all.  So here I am and here we are.  In the process of absconding with billions in ill gotten gain.  My personal Nirvana.  You guys needed me and, as it turns out, I needed you too.

Phil pauses to light up a cigar.

“And now that I’ve finally arrived, Michael wants me to give it all up.  He wants me to just walk away.  He wants me to welcome back obscurity with open arms.  That’s why we’re all here tonight, right Michael?”

“That’s right Phil,” I say.

“Doesn’t seem fair now, does it Otter?” Phil asks.  “Does it Jimmy?”  He’s feeling out the rest of the team, searching for the weakest link.

“The violence has got to stop,” Otter says.  “Phil you are out of control and this isn’t what I signed on for.”

“Well then maybe you’re the problem, you gutless geek.  We’re hardcore.  This is serious business.  You’re off the team, not me –- and no split.  I don’t split my take with fucking cowards.”

“No Phil,” I say.  “Otter stays.  I’ve already made my decision.”

Jimmy is uncharacteristically mute.  He’s turning his coffee cup around and around in its saucer.

“Oh I see,” Phil says.  “You still think you are the leader of this crew.”

“I still am and you’re out.  The bloodletting stops here and now.”

Phil takes a tug on his cigar and lets out a tuft of smoke.  It dances, swirling over our heads for a seemingly inordinate amount of time.  Without explanation the ancient jukebox at the far end of the counter lights up and begins to play.  The song is the Judas Priest classic <i>You’ve Got Another Thing Coming</i>.

“We’ll arrange an equitable split of the take …” I start to say.

Phil taps his cigar over the ashtray.  Ashes tumble through the tension-filled air and a waitress appears out of the gloom.

“Ready to order?”

“Not just yet Gracie,” Phil says.  “Maybe for now you could just warm their coffee.  These boys don’t have much of an appetite yet.  I’ll call you when we’re ready.  Until then it’s best you just mind your business and keep out from under our feet.”

Gracie does as she’s told.  She warms our coffee and abruptly leaves.  It’s hard to tell whether or not Phil’s Pitched her, either way, we’re alone with Phil and the situation is coming to a head.

“Unfortunately Michael, I don’t subscribe to your school of thought on this subject.  Perhaps you can reconsider?  Or do I have your final answer?”

I pause, mentally running through verbal retorts, with the ultimate goal of diffusing the situation.

“That’s his final answer,” Jimmy says, breaking the din.

“I want to hear it from him,” Phil says, pointing at me, and pounding his fist on the table.

“That’s my final answer Phil,” I say.

“That’s our final answer,” Tommy echoes, instantly capturing Phil’s ire.  The lights flicker.  Phil furrows his brow.  His anger is explosive.

“Why don’t you shut your pie hole, you useless fuck,” Phil says to Tommy.  “I never understood what you were doing on this team anyway.  I never understood exactly what your contribution was to justify a split of our take -- fund dispersion?  What the fuck is that?”

Tommy opens his mouth to retort.  Before he can say anything, Phil says, “Bleed, you prick.  I’m done with you -- Bleed.”

Blood begins to pour from Tommy’s nose.  It cascades down the front of his shirt before any of us, including Tommy, can react.  Finally Jimmy pulls some napkins from the ancient metal dispenser and thrusts them at the gusher.

“Phil, stop it now,” I say.

“Michael, it’s obvious we’re not going to be able to handle this like gentlemen.”  Otter runs to the restroom to retch.  His terrified sneakers squeal as they contact the floor.  Phil ignores him.

“Phil stop,” I say.

“Michael, I’ll stop, but you’re going to have to step outside with me.”

“No way Phil.”

“We’ll settle this once and for all, just you and I.”

I look over at Tommy.  Blood is now dripping out of his ears.  I know the situation is dire.  Phil’s dropping the nukes.  The reason I didn’t want Dana at the diner is something happening like this.

“Well Mike what’ll it be.  You’re the only one that can stop this.  Let’s step out back -- shall we?  Tommy’s got another thirty seconds and it’ll be over.  I’ll let him walk away if we settle this man to man.”

“Fine,” I say.  “You win.  Now leave Tommy alone and let’s do this.”

Phil turns away from me, to Tommy, and says, “Enough.”

I take the opportunity to slip a knife off the table.  I hide it up my shirtsleeve like a magician.  It’s only a butter knife with a dull blade, but it’s got a heavy shaft and it’s better than nothing.  It’ll have to do.

“Shall we?” Phil says, gesturing to the back exit, past the restroom, labeled emergency.

“Take care of him,” I say to Jimmy, motioning toward a pallid Tommy, as I step away from the table.

As I walk the expanse of stained linoleum, I think of Dana and I wonder what could have been.  I’m walking to certain doom, I figure.  Phil’s going to tear me apart without laying a hand on me and I don’t really see much I can do about it.

The brisk October air slaps me alert, as I march through the exit, across the rear yard, past two overflowing dumpsters and dozens of broken bottles.  Garbage and debris litter an expanse of dirt interspersed with patches of lawn.  I turn back, once again thinking it didn’t have to be this way.

Phil smashes me in the gut with a hard right uppercut.  I’m caught by surprise.  His knuckles bludgeon my breadbasket.  He follows it up with a second shot and a right-cross to the jaw that sends me sprawling backward, arms pin-wheeling as I struggle to maintain my balance, like a drunken tightrope walker.

I step in a hole and fall backward over a pile of discarded lumber.  Something snaps in my knee with an audible pop.  My kneecap, I can’t find.  The pain explodes throughout my lower body.  I think, this is the end.  It’s all over.

“Michael, you look surprised,” Phil says.  “You didn’t really think I needed to use my <i>shit</i>, did you?  Sorry son, I’m the better man.”

I try to move my leg and I can’t.  There’s no way I can stand.

“Now that we have this time together, I want to tell you something.  I never respected you.  And I don’t think the rest of the guys respect you either.  I mean, where are they?  Certainly not here to defend their fearless leader.  They’re waiting inside to watch me emerge the victor.  They’ll shift their loyalty in good conscience with you out of the picture.”

I check up my sleeve for the knife.  It’s still there.

“And you know what?” Phil says.  “I’ll take them back for now; just long enough for us to get the money.  I’ll accept their apologies and take them back -- all except that little custodian of yours.

Michael, she’s going to die.  After I’m done with her, Dana’s going to bleed.”

“Phil,” I say.  “Go fuck yourself.”

Phil grunts and wipes sweat from his upper lip with a Brooks Brothers handkerchief.  “Bleed you little piece of shit.  Bleed.”

At once the pressure in my skull mounts to an uncomfortable level.  It feels like an overweight dominatrix is standing on my forehead.  Tears well-up in the corner of my eyes.  They tumble down my cheeks.  I wipe them away with the back of my hand and discover the blood -- my blood.  I’m bleeding out of my eye sockets.  My vision is fading fast.

I can see just enough to witness Phil puffing on another cigar.  He’s standing over me, ready to drop ashes in my face.  He’s won.  A final thought of Dana races through my consciousness.  Tears of sorrow mix with blood.

The impossible, I hear her voice.  She’s screaming my name.  It’s Dana.

“Michael, Michael … No!”  She’s running to help me.  “Phil, you bastard,” She screams.

I hear another voice screaming with the vigor of William Wallace, the Thirteenth Century Scot depicted in the movie <i>Braveheart</i>.

“This is faah-gay-zee crazy.”

It’s Jimmy, Dana, and Otter.  Somehow they’re <i>riding</i> to my rescue.  Yet, the odds seem insurmountable.  I think we’re all going down together.

<i>Faah-gay-zee crazy</i>.

“What the fuck?”  Phil says.  He sees the posse.  “Not you too, Jimmy, not you.”

“Leave him alone Phil,” Jimmy says, grabbing a two-by-four, littered with protruding nails.  “Leave him alone or I’ll take your head off.”

“Afraid it’s too late for that my old friend.  Now you three are going to join him.”

Phil still standing over me, drops the cigar, points at Otter and says, “Bang.”

Otter’s head explodes, as though blown from his shoulders with a shotgun.  His body backpedals quickly, eventually hitting the dirt ten yards beyond the point of the lethal blow.

Phil looks at Jimmy and Dana, and shouts, “Bleed.”  His choice of telekinetic commands appears arbitrary.  Only he knows for certain and I’m in no position to ask questions, especially regarding the Pitch.

I hear Dana shriek and fall to the ground.

I draw on my resolve.  I can’t let this happen to her.

I manage to slide the knife out of my sleeve and into my right hand.  Gripping it as tight as I can under the circumstances, I raise the weapon and plunge it, as hard as I can, into my own leg.

It's the ultimate in cutting.

The pain in my head disappears immediately.  I think I’ve severed an artery because my blood is spraying everywhere, soiling Phil’s previously perfect suit.

“No,” Phil screams, sensing he’s losing control of me.

My vision is returning.  I see Dana and Jimmy writhing on the ground.

No time to lose.

I pull the knife from my thigh.

I plunge it upward into Phil’s groin.

“Gaah-fuck,” Phil mutters.  “You bastard.”

I twist the knife, to worsen the wound, while pulling downward on Phil’s belt.

Jimmy has recovered quickly.  He smashes Phil across the back of the skull with the board.  Old rusty nails impale his brain.  What looks like raspberry preserves slides down the side of his neck.

Phil folds.  He tumbles to ground landing in a heap of broken glass.

Dana is at my side.  “Are you okay?” She asks.  She’s wiping the blood from my face.

“I am now,” I say.  I kiss her.

Jimmy collapses next to me and smiles.  He asks, “Did you see the fucking ten year today?”

I hug him.

We laugh and cry in unison.

***

The sun is laser hot.  It’s browning my shoulders.  My nose is pink and peeling.  I make another pitcher under the cover of the cabaña and pour three Margaritas.  Dana’s next to the pool, working on one of her drawings.  Jimmy’s on the laptop, slamming away at his usual day trading.  We’re at our house, on a tropical island -- well it’s actually more of a Villa.  I can’t, of course, disclose the location.

We pulled it off, the job that is.  We did it without any additional carnage, though unfortunately we lost Tommy, Otter, and Phil along the way.  In a strange way I feel sorry about Phil too.

Money is no longer a concern for any of us, not that it really ever was.  For reasons I can’t explain, I’m still cutting.  I’ve decreased he frequency with Dana’s help, but I still need the additional release.

We’re happy, I guess.  At least as happy as anyone can really be.

With taking the money, you do it just because you can.  You do it because there’s nothing else to fill the void.  The funny thing is, you stop for the same reason –- just because you can.

Yet the cutting remains.

Some guys try meditation.  Some guys try yoga.  I prefer the razor.

“This is the life.”