CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

Two Killers and a Stoner

 

Pink walked towards the two men seated outside the penthouse primary door. She was wearing a black slinky dress that emphasized her near perfect shape. She was carrying a Corona in each hand.

The men were the only two allowed to guard the penthouse. It was not a matter of choice but by a show of arms. Alejandro and Benito stood quietly, their earbuds in their ears. Alejandro was listening to his favorite history podcast and Benito was listening to Spotify. Both men stood just over six feet tall. They wore well-fitting black suits, white shirt, and thin red ties. High performance black cross country athletic shoes adorned their feet.

 The two men watched her approach, their hands on their weapons. Alejandro gave his unarmed signal to Benito, and they moved their hands down to their sides again.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Pink said.

“Good evening. How are you this fine evening,” Benito said in flawless English.

“It’s been a good day so far. I loved Brian’s presentation today,” she said.

“Dreams are always nice,” Benito said.

Pink smiled. “They are and he’s making his real,” she said.

“With enough money you can,” said Alejandro in perfect English.

“You both speak excellent English,” Pink said with a smile.

“We’re from San Diego,” Benito said.

“That makes sense,” she said. “Hey, I brought you a couple of beers. They’re having a hell of a good time, don’t see why you two shouldn’t at least have a beer.”

“Thanks, but not on company time. But I appreciate you thinking about us,” Benito said with a smile.

“You can’t sneak one now and then?” Pink asked.

“Sure, but you know how it is. Before you know it, we’re sneaking two and then our boss will not react kindly,” Alejandro said.

“So, you get yelled at a little,” she said.

Benito laughed. “If that were all that happened, I’d already be drinking that beer.”

“You’ve got one of those bosses,” she said with a frown.

“We work for one of those organizations,” Benito confirmed.

“Gotcha,” she said. Pink put one of the beer bottles to her lips and pretended to take a sip. There was enough sedative in one beer to bring both men crashing to the floor. She looked at Alejandro, the more handsome of the two good looking men.

“Are you married?” Pink asked.

“Yes, I am,” Alejandro said.

“That’s a shame,” Pink said.

Benito stood up straight.

“What about you?” She asked Benito.

“Yep, since 2022,” he said.

“Wow, a newly wed. Do you sometimes wish you were still single?” she asked Benito.

Benito looked at Alejandro.

“Nope. Glad every single day.”

“What about you?” she asked Alejandro.

“Same here. Best day of my life was the day we met,” he replied.

“Do you have children?” she asked.

Alejandro laughed. “No, not yet.”

“What about you, any little carpet crawlers at home?” she asked Benito.

“Nope, just a dog,” he said.

Pink was striking out and it was becoming obvious.

“Well gentlemen, if you won’t take my beers or my phone number, I’m afraid there is nothing else I have to offer you,” she said.

“That’s OK, you would be making a big mistake getting tangled up with us,” Alejandro said with a smile.

“Dangerous dudes, I get it. I see your guns. You protect the powerful,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“Well then, I’ll be on my way. But remember me in your dreams tonight,” she said.

“I will,” Benito said.

“Me too.”

 

Pink walked down the hall a beer bottle in each hand. She swayed to accentuate just a little as a final temptation.

 

“She’s very pretty and I love her makeup, it’s so subtle,” Alejandro said.

“Not my type,” Benito said.

They both laughed.

 

Benito and Alejandro are the bodyguards for Carlos Semana, the financial chief of the cartel. Carlos has an MBA from the Wharton School of Finance at the University of Pennsylvania. His uncle works for the cartel at a lower level than Carlos but high enough to pay for a bright nephew’s education.

Carlos has exceptional skills at laundering money.  Many of the cement trucks on the roads in California, Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico are owned by cartel money, at least temporarily. Once the money is clean, Carlos puts it to work in the stock market. He’s an active trader and between a tech portfolio of stocks and options trading, he has doubled the cartel’s legal money in the last three years. This has made him very popular.

It is for this reason that the cartel leadership will listen carefully to any financial advice he offers. It is also the reason why an organization like a drug cartel would tolerate a financial chief who is gay.  And being gay in an organization not known for tolerance is the reason why Carlos insisted on choosing his own security staff.

Alejandro and Benito are married to each other.

 

 

Pink poured the beers out in the restroom before going back to the utility closet one floor below, where the team had the anesthesia equipment.

“Struck out bigtime. Friendly guys but not even interested,” Pink said.

“Must be queers or something,” Red said.

“Not in a cartel,” Blue replied.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Tina replied. “So, what’s plan B, boss?” she asked.

Primo looked at Red and Blue.

“We got this,” Red said. He reached into the small bag he carried with him everywhere. He removed a Dead Air Mojave 9 silencer and put it on the end of his Smith and Wesson MP2.0 9mm pistol. When he was done, he removed another one from his back and tossed it to Red.

“Put the bodies in the service closet near the stairs,” Primo said.

“What the fuck, Primo, this wasn’t part of the plan,” Green said with a worried tone.

“Circumstances are different. In for a penny, in for a pound,” Primo replied.

“This is bitcoin, not British Pounds,” Pink complained.

“I know. We’ve murdered two people, and I just gave the go ahead for two more. It’s all on me.”

“That’s not the way a judge sees it,” said David. “You remember Orlan, don’t you?”

Orlan McGee was sitting in the car while his best friend, Ford, made an unauthorized withdrawal from the Central Florida Savings and Loan the day after Orlan’s twentieth birthday in 1983. On the way out, a security guard shot Ford fatally. But before he died Ford shot and killed the guard. Orlan didn’t try to flee. He got out of the car to tend to his friend. Orlan McGee took the only deal the district attorney offered. Lifetime imprisonment. At the time Orlan thought it was better than death row. When Primo and David knew him, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Red looked at Blue. Blue nodded.

“Ready,” Blue replied.

“Go,” Primo said. “Two minutes.”

Red and Blue moved their microphones to the side of their cheeks. They moved to the door then looked at the screen displaying the image from the cameras they placed at both ends. They exited the utility closet.

“Just like that?” Green said.

“Yes,” Primo said.

“You’re a bastard,” she said.

“I am committed to the objective.”

“The money is not worth killing people,” Green complained.

“You’re just here for the money. I’m here to save the world from Brian,” Primo said adamantly.

“He’s just a crackpot with a lot of money. They never achieve utopia,” Green said as she nodded in agreement with herself.

“This one will. I’ve seen the plan. It will take nearly twenty years, but it is not only doable but highly probable.”

“Bullshit, city states will be wiped off the map by the first thug with a nuke,” Green said.

“Nukes are one of the key elements. They are becoming AI integrated. Under Brian’s plan, any city state that attacks another will be annihilated by the AI that controls the nukes. No one can send a single soldier across any border, so what’s the use of a military if AI is in control. Make plowshares instead. There will be no need for the military-industrial complex.”

“They will kill him if he tries,” said David.

“It was the disbanding of the military which attracted me to his ideas. We spend so much to kill each other and call it defense. It’s such a waste of human potential. A world without war would quite an accomplishment, wouldn’t it?”

“Good luck with that,” said David. “Sure, if I’m dreaming it sounds nice. No more war.”

Primo looked at his watch.

“Final check of the equipment,” Primo said.

Some decisions are more important than others. Green looked long and hard at Primo before she sat down at the chair in front of the control valves and flowmeters. She began looking at the six flowmeters.

“How are things with you, Tina?” Primo asked.

“Jesus Primo, y’all are talking some heavy shit,” Tina replied.

“Suit up time. Start the engine for us, Tina. It’s show time,” Primo said.

“You got it boss,” Tina replied.

David began putting on his respirator.

 

Primo adjusted the earpiece buried in his ear canal.

“See you on the other side,” Primo said to pink. “Don’t forget about me,” he said to Green.

“I won’t. You’ll be groggy for about two minutes.”

 “We’ll be there,” David said and fist bumped Primo.

“Good luck, Boss,” Tina said.

Primo left the utility closet after checking the camera images.

 

He went to the elevator and entered the pin code to take him to the penthouse.

 

Primo was not a religious man but he said a prayer just in case he needed one.

 

The doors opened to an empty hallway. Primo walked past the temporary resting place for Alejandro and Benito.

“We’re back and ready to roll,” Red said as Primo entered the pin into door lock.

“Here’s to a profitable night boys and girls,” Primo said. He took a deep breath when the door unlocked. He hoped he could pull this off. Primo was not a man without self-doubt and it was flooding over him like a tidal wave. He took a deep breath followed by another before entering.

 

A collection of crypto millionaires and billionaires looks unlike most groups of the wealthy. Different path, different wardrobe. Sophistication was not the dress code in their world. No one was wearing a tuxedo, or even a tie, almost. The exception was Carlos Semana, a man who believed it was important to always be the best dressed at any gathering because it gave him confidence.

Primo was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a Doors t-shirt.

As soon as Primo walked in the door, his name rang out from across the room.

“Primo, Primo, come here. I need your help,” a man called out.

Primo walked over to Donald Waysach, a man who created a new way of moving data packets with a fifty percent reduction in latency. If you buy a single share of stock in the United States, Donald’s good idea made it happen nanoseconds faster. After this made him wealthy, Donnie started buying bitcoin.

Donnie has never gotten past the shorts and t-shirt code developer stage of life. In his late thirties and he’s still dressing like he’s coding games in his parent’s basement. Tonight was no different for him. His shorts were cutoff blue jeans, his t-shirt had a picture of as AK47 on it, and his hair was long and in a ponytail.

“I see you aren’t into dressing up for the occasion,” Primo said.

“I’m not here to dress up. I’m here to fuck shit up,” Donnie said with a smile.

“What can I do for you, Donnie?” Primo asked with his best fake smile.

“What was the name of the rock and roller who died in the plane crash?”

“Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, the Big Bopper aka Jiles Perry Richardson, Jr. They all went down in the same plane on February 3rd 1959.”

“No, not them. The Sweet Home Alabama guys” Donnie said.

“Ronnie Van Zant, Steve Gaines, and Cassie Gaines,” Primo said. “October 20, 1977.”

“See I told you it was Ronnie Van Zant,” Donnie said. “Now pay up.”

The other man in the argument, Richard Lacey, looked at Primo. Richard was in his fifties but looked like he was still in his twenties. Some people win the genetic lottery. Richard looks younger than his wife who is in her thirties.

“Damn it Primo you just cost me a dollar,” Richard said.

“One dollar, that’s all?”

“Yes, one dollar,” said Richard as he removed a money clip from his pocket. He looked at Donnie. “Do you have change for a hundred?”

Donnie looked at Richard like he was from another planet.

“Change grandpa? Man, I haven’t carried cash in years. I get some accidentally every now and then. I just give it to the first homeless person I see. You’re showing your age, Richard.”

“Keep the change,” Richard said and handed the $100 bill to Donnie.

“Thank you on behalf of whomever I give this to,” said Donnie before sticking it in his pocket.

Donald Waysach was not a supporter of Brian. At the last monthly meeting, he finally spoke his mind.

“I don’t want a king, and I don’t want to be one. I will not support anything to do with this crazy fucking project. It’s a technocratic dictatorship. Get your shit together people and think about your principles. Sure, it’s more than fair to us, we’ll get the all the privileges. But everyone else is fucked. Even if we make them comfortable, their fucked because they have no say in what happens. That makes us just another bunch of thugs with power and history is full of them. For fuck’s sake, we can do better than this.”

Wealth has its effects on people. With Donnie, it made him not afraid to speak up after decades of frightened silence. Primo and Donnie were friends. Donnie refused to move to Acapulco. But he was here with reason. Donnie has been the big winner the last two times they have played. Everyone suspects he’s cheating somehow but no one can prove it or have the slightest idea how he does it. Also, considering his net worth, why would he cheat?

Donnie cheats because he thinks that taking money from these people is a good thing. In his mind it is his moral obligation to make them poorer.

Every bit of the money he gets from them he gives to various groups engaged in armed struggle. Bitcoin makes giving to your favorite armed charity easy. A few clicks and the Kurds get more shoulder-fired missiles. He matches their contribution to make an even larger impact. 

When a government starts oppressing a minority in a far-off country and their unwilling victims take up arms to defend themselves, Donnie will eventually hear about it and help make sure they don’t run out of bullets. Primo teased Donnie by calling him an armchair revolutionary. Donnie accepted the title proudly. ‘Helping where I can.’

Donnie calls himself a ‘libertarian with a conscience’ and is a generally nice guy, for someone with that much blood on his hands. He’s paid for the killing of over twelve hundred people so far thanks to his definition of ‘help’. 

 

 

There were six poker tables setup. They were large felt topped tables with comfortable heavily padded seats for the players and the dealer. Primo noticed the tables. They were seven sided. He had never seen a seven sided anything before, outside of a geometry book or a classroom wall. 

 

Professional dealers were brought in from Vegas for the night. They wore the vests and bowties as requested.

At one end of the room stood a bar. The man behind it was fixing a red fizzy drink containing vodka to which he added a generous portion. Two young men wearing waitstaff uniforms stood by ready to take drinks to the players. Three attractive women moved about the room with champagne and caviar. Primo called over one of the tall blonde women and took both a glass of champagne and a cracker with caviar.

Yep, he still didn’t like it. That was it. Three times. Primo and caviar were done forever he decided. What do they see in this shit he wondered.

No one was playing poker yet. Primo looked at his watch. Any moment the blowhard would make his welcoming speech. He was punctual at least.

Down at the other end a group of about ten people stood listening to the great man speak.

 Primo had been fooled by Brian at first, but eventually he saw the twisted side of Brian’s utopia, a technology plantation system. Only those with means matter and the rest work to serve the needs of those with means. It was a variant of feudalism.

“Have you checked in yet?” Donnie asked.

“No, going there now.” Primo said.

“He’s going to start the games anytime now,” Donnie said. “I can’t wait.”

“Good luck, my friend,” Donnie said.

He turned and walked over to the table against the glass wall overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

“Good evening, Primo,” the woman behind the desk said as she motioned for Primo to look into the camera for retinal recognition. A green check mark appeared next to his picture on the screen.

Primo reached into her pocket and handed the woman a key fob with an LED display that changed every minute. He also handed her a small piece of paper.

“Thank you, Primo.” She said.

“You’re welcome, Margaret.”

Margeret Pierce is the exception to the boy’s club that is the crypto world. Margeret got there in a convoluted way. She was using Bitcoin to buy weed online while she was in college. She kept watching it go up in value. After four months of free weed tragedy struck. Her father died and left her 200K. After paying off her car loan, she put it all on black, black being Bitcoin. She watched it transform her from the geeky pothead with zits into the beautiful stoner she is today. She changed her major in college to Finance after the first million dollars showed up on the screen of her laptop. She needed that more than a degree in mechanical engineering. She is part of the Bitcoin trading group. Primo liked Margeret and was always on her side in group meetings. Her, Donnie and Primo formed what they called The Axis of Reason within the group, two murderers and a stoner.

“How is Java?” Primo asked Margret.

“She had her kittens last week,” she said.

“Can I have one?” Primo asked.

“Of course you can. Whichever one you want. Well except for the black one with the green eyes. I want to keep that one. We’ve already bonded.”

“I understand.”

Margeret looked over at Brian and those surrounding him.

“He thinks he’s a rock star. I don’t fall for all the fake humility; it’s all an act. Sure I’d be humble if I told you I wanted to reorganize humanity in my own image. That’s messianic 101, Primo.”

“I know. Not a fan. But hey, he draws a crowd.”

“He asked me if I would consider investing in the future of the human race to the tune of one hundred million dollars. Can you believe the audacity? He knows I think he’s full of shit. Yet he asked anyway.”

“Yeah, well fuck him, you said no,” Primo said.

“I told him to go fuck himself and then send me a video of it,” Margeret said.

Primo smiled at the thought.

“How is your mother?” Primo asked.

“She’s coming down tomorrow, at long last.”

“Tell her I want that same meal she made last time, what was it called?” Primo asked.

“Saag Aloo,” Margaret said. Her mother is Indian, her father Irish.

“Best thing I’ve ever eaten,”

“I’ll tell her.”

“You won’t be playing again?” Primo asked.

“No way. Not a chance. That’s why I do this job. I don’t have to be a player and this way I get to attend the party and see everyone together again, like a family reunion.”

 “You’re a good egg, Margaret,” Primo said.

“Speaking of eggs, have you tried the caviar? It’s wonderful, better than last time,” Margeret said.

“I did, still not a fan. I tried. You can have my share.”

“I will. What the fuck? How did she get in here?” Margeret said.

“Who?” Primo asked.

“Your ex.”

 

At the other end of the large room Norman Walther tapped his champagne glass with a spoon. He wore a black suit pinstripe suit, yellow shirt, no tie, and burgundy wingtip shoes. Beside him stood Katrina, her long black hair with glass beads woven as it fell onto her red dress. Primo marveled at her beauty for a moment before the sadness engulfed him.

“If I can have your attention for a moment, please,” Norman said with his booming authoritative voice. “I’d like to invite you to one of my favorite parts of the conference, my chance to take your money. I hope you enjoy yourselves. Finally, I’d like to invite all of you to my wedding tomorrow morning at sunrise on the beach at the front of the resort. Katrina has finally agreed to become my wife.”

Several people started clapping, a few cheered.

Primo had to put his hand out to the table to steady himself. He felt like someone had reached inside of him and removed an organ.