by Aha
On Thursday, April 14, 1996, James Tanner was awake by 6:30 a.m. The Burbank sun had already burnt off the morning haze and it looked as though this day would be like every other. Reaching for his robe on the back of the chair, he shuffled to the bathroom and opened the medicine chest, trying to focus on the battery of pills. There were two for blood pressure, one for circulation and an aspirin for the prevention of heart attack and stroke — all a part of the pill routine meted out to him by his pill-conscious doctor and part of the safe, conservative life he had been living for almost a decade. He was beginning to get sick of it, sick of the pills, the daily workouts at the gym and the other health-conscious conservative boring bullshit. But most of all these days he was on the horns of a dilemma at Boardman Aviation, where he had been employed for the last 14 years.
He ventured a look in the mirror. There was still a boyish feature or two left at 46 and his 6-foot frame was in good condition, but since trading his pilot’s seat at Boardman’s for a desk job, he had started to feel sedentary. When old man Boardman had offered him the job, he and Margaret had spent hours arguing about it. He didn't want the promotion to an office job, but she said they needed the money and after all it was a substantial raise. His part of the argument was that he wasn't executive material and besides there was more to this promotion than met the eye. But Margaret had prevailed eventually. After a hot shower, he put on some slacks, a shirt and tie, and his favorite leather flight jacket (an item from his flying past that he had yet to give up) and slipped out the door. Easing the 1955 Thunderbird replica that he had built himself from a kit out of the driveway, he headed for the ramp that would deposit him on to the I-5 then past the verdugo Hills with its executive homes and through the "Rancho area" to his office. He was beginning to get tired of Burbank, too. The city was idyllic, but located in the very center of Los Angeles county — and, although a community apart from the city of LA, still fell prey to the smog that originated from the hundreds of thousands of cars that flowed back and forth daily, bumper to bumper, on the various freeways. He glumly stared into the distance looking at the dirty pall that hung over most of the county. Years ago, when he and Margaret had first arrived here, there was an occasional crystal clear day as the Santa Ana winds blew out the smog. But even the wind didn't help now; he felt trapped sitting under a gaseous cloud amid thousands of cars. He missed the blue skies of Iowa.
Tanner had managed to keep life pretty interesting as a young man. He’d grown up dirt-poor on a farm outside of Des Moines; then his life had changed forever at age ten, as he watched a crop duster skim the tops of the pastures spraying out lethal doses of DDT. He would slip out the back door of the house in the summertime, sit in the hot Iowa sun, and watch as the old biplane made pass after pass over his neighbor's cotton field, quietly imagining how it must feel to have complete air supremacy over the birds. Later, in high school, he would skip class and sneak down to the dirt airstrip, sit in the cockpit of the old plane and pretend to fly it and had even struck up a tentative friendship with the pilot who promised to take him up sometime. But crop dusting, as the grizzled pilot had explained to James, was a business and he was too busy to fool with a kid. After high school, Tanner joined the army; fresh out of basic training, he applied for flight school and was accepted. Tanner was a straight-A student — a natural — and the instructors were amazed at how deft he was at the controls of an airplane. He could make any kind of fixed-wing aircraft the army owned do his bidding, from crabbing into a 20-knot crosswind to flying on instruments in any kind of weather. After a tour in Vietnam, flying phantom jets, and an honorable discharge, he had signed a ,four-year contract with Braniff and was checked out to fly 707s before that company went belly up. James enjoyed his first job as a commercial pilot — it had been lucrative with plenty of female flight attendants to choose from — but then he had met Margaret on a two-day layover in London. Her blue eyes, beautiful ankles, and English accent were enough to make him propose marriage after only two months. No children, they had both agreed early on, and so she had bravely gone to his doctor once back in the states for a tubal ligation. Then James had been offered a flying job as a charter pilot for Boardman Aviation and they had moved to Burbank. Their marriage had been solid over the years, but his situation at work was quickly becoming intolerable.
He pulled into his designated parking spot at work and took the elevator two floors to his office. Shirley, his secretary, had his coffee and newspaper waiting on his desk. She had been his secretary for the last eight years and a sweeter woman never existed. Shirley was James' ace in the hole. A dowdy but cheerful and efficient woman of 45, she was the very personification of the "secret"-ary, covering for him many times when he didn't feel like coming into work or just needed a day off. He was sure there had to be a reserved place in heaven for people like Shirley, one of the true unsung heroes of the corporate world. As he thumbed through the Times and sipped his coffee, the intercom came to life with a beep.
"Can you come in here?" It was the voice of his boss, John Boardman. Boardman, a large man over six feet tall and 60 years of age, was an overpowering individual who had been selling shoes in downtown Van Nuys at age 25. By 28 he had saved and borrowed enough money to buy his own small plane; at 30, had sold enough shoes and given enough private flying lessons to buy another. Over the years he had slowly parlayed his two small airplanes into a successful charter service with 15 planes, using the crude but effective strategy of mowing down the competition like a weed eater. He was as tough as a stump, a self-made man, successful in business but a miserable failure in family and social life. His Achilles’ heel, from day one, was his son William. Tanner didn't like Willie but he was not sure if the old man knew why and he wasn't sure if he knew exactly how to tell him. Gulping down one last swallow of coffee that burned his mouth, he swore and headed down the hall to the elevator, then one floor up to the CEO's office. The old man had a secretary on each side of his office and to gain entrance, one of them had to "buzz" you in. It was ludicrous as far as he was concerned — something straight out of a Bond film — and as he waited for the buzz he always felt silly standing there waiting to get in. As he walked inside the office the old man greeted him from behind a huge oak desk.
"Please sit down James,” he said, pointing towards a leather chair. "Let me get right to the point. As you know William is coming home from college in two weeks. He uh, ran into a few problems but either way and I know you won't be surprised when I tell you that I have plans for him to eventually succeed me in this company." The old man looked down at his desk.
"And I will need your help. William has some growing up to do, James, and he is going to have to lean on you to do it." Then Boardman looked straight at James. "If at all possible I want you two to become friends."
Some growing up to do was putting it mildly, Tanner thought. Although the old man would never admit it, Tanner was his best — last — chance at straightening out his son William. He, Tanner, was supposed to be the example that Willie was to follow, both in his business and personal life; Tanner knew Boardman had intended it to be that way (maybe not at first, but certainly the last few years).
"So,” the old man continued through his cigar, “Willa and I thought we would throw a small dinner party at my house Friday after next. Nothing fancy you understand, just an informal little gathering. Of course you and Margaret will be there won't you?” This was obviously a pitiful attempt to put him and Willie in the same room. Like taking two dogs and rubbing their noses together to see if they would lick or bite. He wondered to himself if Boardman really expected him to celebrate the fact that the company eventually would be turned over to a loose cannon like Willie. He had to hand it to the old man — he had a lot of gall to think that Tanner would spend his remaining productive days on this earth wet-nursing a loser like William Boardman. Simply put, he hated Willie's guts. Tanner resisted an impulse to tell the old man to take his company, job and his son and stick them up his ass, but all in all Boardman Sr. had been pretty good to him in the past and it really wasn't the old man's fault that he had spawned an idiot son. However, Tanner did blame him for refusing to recognize or acknowledge what a continual fuck-up Willie had been so far in his life. But Tanner had his own personal reason for hating Willie, one that he was sure Boardman Senior didn't know about. Some months ago Willie, home from college on Christmas break, had made a drunken move on Margaret at a cocktail party —no, an assault, as James saw it. He had crept up behind her as she made a batch of martinis and with one arm he had grabbed her around the waist while his other hand snaked up her dress and into her panties. She had jerked away immediately and tried to slap him, but he had caught her hand and twisted so hard that she cried out. Then he threw back his head and laughed as he wove drunkenly out of the room leaving Margaret weeping and holding her wrist. She had not told him about it until some months later. Up until then, he had simply thought of Willie as a nuisance, but now he hated him and vowed to himself that someday he would pay for that bit of stupidity. Thinking about it later and trying to contain his anger somewhat, Tanner rationalized that Willie was just a fucked-up individual and had it been another woman he would have done the same thing to her. But it hadn't been another woman — it had been his Margaret. That made it personal, and Tanner was waiting for the day when he would have the opportunity to beat the living shit out of him. It was something between him and Willie that was irreparable and Boardman Sr. would have to know about it sooner or later. James decided later would be better, at least for now anyway.
All in all, the whole Boardman family was pretty much a dysfunctional mess and the old man, it seemed, was the glue that held it together. Willie had been a problem for his parents ever since birth. Boardman's wife had been a closet alcoholic while pregnant and William was born severely underweight, a victim of fetal alcohol syndrome. He had remained sickly and cranky until the age of six when he had seemed to come out of it, but the withdrawals from the alcohol apparently had left him with a permanently nasty disposition. And now fully grown at age twenty-five, Willie was not much of a man either. Short with a stocky build, he had apparently inherited neither his father's height nor his brains; having plenty of money growing up hadn't given him much class, either. Perhaps the most unattractive feature about him was his penchant for wearing gel or grease in his hair, which made his black hair even blacker, giving him a thuggish look. James had had occasion to eat a meal with Willie a few times in the past at the old man's request and had been appalled as he watched Willie eat his lunch and smoke cigarettes at the same time, eyes always darting back and forth, which made Tanner very uncomfortable.
Apparently William had inherited his lack of character from his mother. Mrs. Boardman (or "Willa" as she was known around the office) had retreated from parenting early in little Willie's life for the calmer climes of alcoholism and prescription drugs, leaving him to be raised by babysitters. In the meantime, Boardman Sr. had created her an "office" in the building so it would appear that she had some kind of work ethic and could hold down a steady job, but the truth was, she spent most of her time pilled up on tranquilizers and talking on the telephone, so it was probably best that she never came to work before nine o'clock and never stayed past three o'clock. She was also given to flights of fancy, no doubt as a result of her addictions, and changed the color of her office decor two or three times a year. Sometimes the carpets would be purple and next maybe pink; the Boardman employees would take bets on what the next color would be. But perhaps the worst-kept secret in the company was that her son Willie had a serious drug problem since age sixteen. No one talked about it to the old man, but everyone knew it was true. Many times Tanner had seen Willie in the halls or elevator of the company and he always seemed to have a "summer cold"… constantly sniffing and snorting and blowing his nose (a classic cocaine addict symptom). Before the mauling incident with Margaret, James had always been civil to him if he saw him in the hall or in Boardman's office and had always spoken, but Willie hardly ever returned the greeting. James had not seen him recently — not since the party, in fact — and now he wondered how he was going to be able to keep from beating the holy shit out of him when he did see him again.
Back in his office James continued to rifle through the paper. A large, bordered add caught his eye. “LA to LAS VEGAS $85 WEEKENDS ONLY,” it said. At that moment the intercom beeped again; it was Shirley.
“It’s your wife, Mr. Tee, on line three.”
Margaret called an average of three times a day and it seemed lately she needed a lot of support. He loved her but he wished she were stronger and more independent. At first he had thought that maybe because she was a born Londoner, being in America made her feel insecure, but after a while he'd realized that it was more than that. She truly depended on him...lately more than ever. He harbored suspicions that she had never gotten over the trauma of her parents being killed in an auto accident when she was only seventeen, although they had talked about it only once or twice. And since there were no kids at home, there was always the possibility that she was just lonely.
"Hi Hon, what do you need?"
"James, if I am not here when you get home tonight, I will be at Megan's. But I should be home early. I left some things in the fridge to eat… is that ok? And tomorrow night she is having a lingerie representative over to show everyone a new line and that sort of thing. I don't have to go, as a matter of fact if you want to come home a little early tomorrow, I'll stay and cook dinner for you."
Megan was the closest thing that Margaret had to a best friend and lived a couple of streets over.
"No you go and have fun. I'll be home when you get there."
"Well you know tomorrow IS Friday." her voice took on a sexy quality. Friday nights were their nights for a sexual liaison and had been for years and he always looked forward to them. Margaret still had one of the most attractive bodies he had seen at 42. She kept trim and fit, and her chestnut hair, snapping blue eyes, straight nose, strong chin and long tapered legs made her almost "handsome" in a tomboy sort of way.
"We'll talk about it tonight, o.k.? " See you then."
As soon as the light had gone out on line three, in bustled Shirley.
"Here are the contracts and deposit checks for both the Jamison and Kramer charters. Jamison has made a $5,000.00 deposit and Kramer Inc. has paid the full $10,000 for both of their charters and Mr. Board man wants you to deposit these in the bank on your way home."
Tanner winced. Only corporate officers were supposed to make deposits, but the bank knew all the employees at Boardman; the old man's secretary could have and had made deposits many times. Tanner felt like an errand boy when he made one. Tanner's lifelong dream had been to be his own man and operate his own charter service. He wanted nothing big — just a couple of Beechcrafts and maybe even a small jet for business and personal junkets. But he knew it would take at least $200,000 just to get started, and although he and Margaret had managed to save a small nest egg it didn't come close to that amount. And at any rate he couldn't see borrowing the money at eight to twelve percent interest, which would bring a loan of that size, if he could secure it, to close to a quarter of a million dollars. He turned his attention to the contracts piled on desk and at 4:30 decided to go home.
He pulled the T-Bird into his driveway around five o’clock that afternoon. Jasper, his golden retriever, burst through the small flap built into the kitchen door and ran to the car barking a friendly greeting.
"Hiya boy," he cooed to the dog. The house was quiet. Margaret must be over at Megan’s, he thought as he poured himself bourbon on the rocks and settled into his easy chair. Jasper took up his usual position on the floor next to him. As the whiskey made a pleasant burn down his throat, he opened his briefcase to get his reading glasses and his copy of the Times when he noticed the two envelopes Shirley had given him with the checks enclosed. He had forgotten to go by the bank and deposit the checks! Well, company ledgers would not be balanced until Monday and this was Thursday, leaving him another day to run this little errand. Still, he didn't like the responsibility of having $15,000 in company money lying around. He put the checks back in his briefcase and propped his feet onto the ottoman. The paper fell open to the amusement section and there glaring up at him again was the ad for Las Vegas. He had been there once or twice before on vacation but hadn’t enjoyed it that much, except for the shows; having an analytical mind, he’d quickly computed the odds to most of the games that were offered. Needless to say, none of them were in the players’ favor. He remembered thinking at the time that it was stupid to throw away hard-earned money on long shots like dice, keno or slot machines. Twenty-one, or blackjack, as it was called, had by far the best odds but they were still not good enough to come away a winner. You could have a streak of luck but if you kept playing you would eventually lose. In order to win consistently in Vegas you would have to shift the odds to your favor somehow — create an edge of some kind, and that was virtually impossible as cameras recorded everything and pit bosses were trained to spot card counting and other forms of cheating. During his tour in Vietnam he had done a lot of gambling, since there was little else to do when his unit was on rest and recuperation. He had learned one thing about blackjack: the odds were inexorably in favor of whoever was dealing the cards. He recalled one blackjack scam a sergeant had told him about that, according to him, had worked at the Atlantic City gaming tables, but he hadn't paid much attention to it at the time and had written it off as mostly brag on the sergeant's part. But now his mind wandered to the checks in his briefcase and back to the Las Vegas ad and then back to the scam the sergeant had told him about, and he began to wonder in a mostly fanciful way, if he could pull off something like that.
Tanner was preoccupied all through dinner that night and Margaret, who kept a close eye on him anyway, finally asked what the matter was. He mumbled something about the old man and the business, which she accepted, but the wheels in his mind were beginning to spin in earnest. The scam described to him by the sergeant clearly called for cheating and Tanner didn't think of himself as a cheater. He had never cheated anyone in his life...but Vegas was a different matter altogether. It was a “something,” not a “somebody,” he rationalized, a huge mindless money machine that literally sucked the life out of thousands of people every year.
That night after Margaret had gone to bed, he opened his briefcase and looked at the checks. All that would be required would be for him to sign Boardman Aviation on the back then his name underneath. As an officer of the company he was approved at the Chemical Bank of Los Angeles for cashing checks. Although he rarely did cash checks, it wouldn't be questioned. He had another $10,000 of his own in a savings account at the Bank of America. That would make $25,000; if he had an edge he might be able to parlay such a stake into the six figures needed for a charter service and replace the money before anyone was the wiser. But was he crazy? What he had in mind was risky, very risky. It could mean years in jail and financial ruin for embezzling company funds. The plan he had in mind though, didn't have to go dreadfully wrong, if it went wrong at all...only if he got caught. Boardman's funds could always be replaced if things didn't go right; however, if he were discovered trying to run a scam in Las Vegas.... well that was a different matter. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to fall into place. He could call Shirley at home tonight and tell her to make up an excuse for his not being at work on Friday the next day. Margaret would be at Megan's the rest of the day and it would be later that night before she would even realize his absence. He could leave her a note saying that Mr. Boardman had requested that he accompany one of the pilots on a charter for safety and insurance reasons and would not return until Sunday. That wouldn't be an unfamiliar scenario to Margaret; he had done that very thing before on occasion when one of the copilots had come down with a bug and he had to fly right seat. He could write the note before leaving that morning. This should free him up for the entire weekend. Lying awake that night until two in the morning, he recalled some things he had learned the couple of times he had been in Vegas. While watching the players (losers mostly) at the 21 tables, he noticed that it was customary to tip the dealer if you were winning. Also he had learned from casual conversation with another player that the tips are split up at the end of the shifts between all the dealers. He observed that 21 dealers are not big talkers. If they said anything, it was usually the question "hit?" to ask the players if they want more cards. Most of the time players who do not want a hit simply place their betting chips on top of their cards. It's a situation where the dealer really need not say anything at all. The plan he had in mind...the one told to him by the army sergeant, was to prey on human greed by tipping the dealer a lot of money, so much in fact that sooner or later that dealer would swing the odds in his favor. But it involved a lot of variables and it was by no means a lead-pipe cinch.
He awoke and was up by 7:30 on Friday morning. He sat in his easy chair thinking about the plan and entertaining doubts. Was he letting boredom and his hatred for Willie get him into something he would be sorry for? One thing was for certain, working in the same building with him was unacceptable no matter how much money Boardman paid him and by the same token he was a little old to be looking for another job. If he were to ever have a chance to buy his own company this could be it. However the plan was morally flawed. The money would only be "borrowed" from Boardman and he would pay it back either way, it was the cheating part that bothered him, and of course the idea of getting caught wasn't all that attractive either. But then he recalled sitting with a stranger at the bar the last time he and Margaret were in Vegas. The man had told him that he had lost his life savings, then sold his ranch in western Arizona and had lost that money too. He told Tanner that he had borrowed money from his mother and was back to get even. The memory helped Tanner balance the moral question, at least in his mind. Then he thought about Willie arriving at the company in only a couple of weeks and the inevitable confrontation that would ensue...that was enough. He really didn't have all that much to lose at this point in time. After a shower and shave he threw his razor and other toilet articles in a dop kit, then quickly picked up the phone and called his office. Shirley answered.
"Shirley it’s me. I need you to cover for me today. I just need some time away from the office. If my wife calls, I am on a charter if the old man asks, just say I called in sick."
"No problem Mr. Tee."
"Thanks Shirley."
Margaret was still sleeping so he wrote the phony note to her, threw on his flight jacket, grabbed a change of clothes and was out the door and heading down the I-5 towards the Chemical Bank of Los Angeles by 8:30. Although nervous, he was feeling more alert and alive than he had felt in years.
Gail Barnett the cute teller at the Chemical Bank greeted him with a sunny smile. I could just deposit the checks and go to work and back out now he thought.
"Mr. Tanner, may I help you?" Gail’s voice broke his thoughts and tiny beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead. He hoped they didn't show as he pushed the two checks now endorsed towards her.
"To be deposited?" she chirped.
"No, I need to cash them this time Gail, he said firmly. She looked at the checks and her cheeks inflated like two pink balloons.
"I'll have to get a bank officer to approve, because of the amount." She disappeared down the hall towards the bank offices.
She's probably gone to alert the company or something...no, don't be stupid...he had never cashed a check as large as these two at this bank...that could have thrown up some red flags. But what the hell, he was entitled to cash checks here besides he wasn't stealing it...he was borrowing it.
The junior bank executive's voice broke through his thoughts.
"Sorry Mr. Tanner we have a computer down that holds the verification list I can just call the company and verify or it will be a minute until I can get the back up files."
"Uh no....company holiday today, no one in the office. " he lied.
"I apologize Mr. Tanner, bank policy... would you care for a cup of coffee while you wait?"
"No thanks." Tanner said evenly. The young man disappeared down the hall and it seemed like a lifetime before he reappeared.
"I apologize again, Mr. Tanner. Gail here will help you with whatever else you need.”
"Mr. Tanner, What denominations would you like this in?” Gail’s voice had a singsong carefree quality to it that relaxed him somewhat.
"Hundreds will be fine." he replied and watched as she counted out 150 one hundred dollar bills. It seemed like a lot. It was a lot.
"May I get you a bank bag sir?"
"Yes please." His mouth was dry. Stuffing the stack of bills in the bag he mumbled a thank you, turned and walked out of the bank. Up to now this had been a hypothetical but reality was starting to set it. Driving towards the Bank of America he thought,” Well, now you know what it feels like to be a felon.”
He withdrew $10,000 more from his savings account, which was much easier than the previous withdrawal, put the cash into the bank bag with the rest of the money and headed for LAX. He parked the coveted Thunderbird in long term parking and walked into the terminal. He had no way of knowing then that he would never drive it again. His only baggage was a black oversized briefcase, the kind pilots used for flight plans. It was one of the few things left over from his Braniff days. Inside were one shirt, one pair of slacks, and a change of underwear, socks, his dop kit and $25000,00 cash. He went straight to the Pacific Airlines counter and bought a one-way ticket to Las Vegas. Approaching the security gate he prayed that nothing would go wrong. There was nothing illegal about carrying a bag full of money in your carry-on luggage, was there? No one even knew it was stolen yet and hopefully never would. Nevertheless he felt guilty and was sure he looked guilty. The briefcase passed through x-ray without incident. Tanner boarded the 727 and once in his seat breathed a sigh of relief.