Declaring Assets
The youngish looking man stepped out of the elevator and into the front lobby of Kramer, Messines, & Vent. “May I help you?” asked the attractive blonde at the receptionist’s desk. Her eyes widened as two young women followed him. “Jaimie. Madison. I don’t think your father is expecting you.”
“That’s okay,” the man replied. “They’re with me. I’m here to see their father.”
“Do you have an appointment?” The receptionist’s eyes flicked back and forth, wondering what the daughters of a billionaire were doing with such a . . . scruffy individual.
“I don’t need an appointment.” He walked past the desk to the corridor behind, dragging the girls in his wake.
“No, you don’t need an appointment.” Her attention switched back to the elevator lobby.
He walked to the office he wanted like he knew the place; he’d asked Jaimie how to get to the right office on the way up. He arrived at the proper door. No nameplate. He slipped his hand up Madison’s plaid skirt and squeezed, producing a giggle. “You two wait for me right here.” He indicated chairs in the waiting room, fully visible from the office.
“Yes, Master,” they replied in unison, sitting down.
Without knocking, he entered.
“Who the hell are you?”
He ignored the question. “Are you Victor Messines?”
Victor looked at the person who had just barged in. Indeterminate age. Dark hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks, if ever. Ripped jeans and a white t-shirt that showed Paul Simonon smashing a bass guitar.
“What do you want?”
“Let’s try this again,” the man said. “Answer my questions. Are you Victor Messines?”
“Yes, I’m Victor Messines.” He reached for his phone. “I’m also about to call security.”
“No, don’t call anyone. And be quiet except to answer my questions.” The man slouched into a chair across the desk.
Those eyes Victor thought as they focused on him for the first time.
“I had an interesting conversation with Simon Barrie recently. Your name came up.”
Many thoughts went through Victor’s head, none of which escaped past his lips.
“Simon is a thoroughly sleazy, despicable sort.” The man shrugged. “What else would you expect from a banker in the Cayman Islands? Would you care to guess what our discussion was about?”
“I have no idea. I don’t know a Simon Barrie.”
Those eyes
A loud sigh. “Next rule. When you answer me, you will do so truthfully. What do you think Simon and I talked about?”
“Bank accounts, I assume.”
“Well, yes, but also trusts. How much money would you say that you have stashed away with AXL Bancorp?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“My time isn’t especially valuable, Victor, but I still resent it when some asshole wastes it. If you are evasive, I am going to punish you. So, ignoring the way that assets fluctuate in value, approximately how much money have you stashed away with AXL Bancorp?”
“Nothing.”
Those eyes Excruciating pain instantly filled Victor’s consciousness, and then shut off.
“I warned you. And no one can hear you scream, so don’t expect help.”
Victor tried to catch his breath.
“I know you have money down in the Caymans. I know that Simon and AXL helped you get it there. So, what technicality made you think it was okay to try to deceive me there?”
“It’s not . . . with AXL,” Victor gasped “It’s in shell companies.”
“That Simon helped you set up.”
“Yes.”
“Going forward, keep in mind that I don’t know shit about finance. A more boring, useless subject is hard to imagine. So don’t play stupid games based upon my asking the wrong question. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“So, how much money do you have in shell companies in the Caymans?”
“Don’t . . . do that again,” Victor said hurriedly, “but I don’t know. That’s the point of shell companies. They aren’t like bank accounts. Set up a nest of them, and the money isn’t definitively anywhere. You treat as in one place for one purpose, and somewhere else for another.”
“So, it’s Schrödinger’s money.”
“Essentially, yes.”
“So, where else do you have bank accounts. Or trusts. Or shell companies.”
“Here in the U.S., Britain, Germa . . .”
Those eyes Pain, like an electric shock, but so, so much worse.
“You aren’t actually screaming, you know. The effect locks up your jaw. It’s more sort of a whistle of agony.”
Victor realized that he’d pissed in his pants.
“I don’t give a shit about all of your regular, normal banking. You know that by now. Just give me the offshore places you hide money.”
“Jersey. Malta. Abu Dhabi. Bermuda. South Dakota.”
“South Dakota? Really?”
“They have very favorable banking regulations, for some things.”
“All told, how much money would you say that you have hidden in these places?”
“About $2.6 billion.”
The man whistled. “That’s a nice stash. Let me guess, you haven’t declared any of it to the IRS.”
“A tiny amount of it. But, no, not really.”
“You realize that you are what’s wrong with America, right?”
“That’s not true! I . . .”
“Shut up. Of course you don’t. It was a rhetorical question.” He kept playing with the pen.
“So. Here is what is going to happen. You are going to put together a complete list of all of those accounts, trusts, and shell companies. And whatever else you have.” He took several slips of paper out of his pocket, and slid one across the desk. “By midnight tomorrow, you will email that list to this address. Don’t bother trying to track it. I use email addresses the way you use shell companies.”
He smiled. It didn’t reassure Victor.
“A few months from now, some fine people from the federal government are going to come talk to you about that list. When they do, you will be completely open and honest with them. You will admit that all of that wealth is yours. No prevarication. You will pay whatever penalties and tax they say that you own. In order to be cooperative, you will rat out anyone else you know or suspect is hiding their assets, with as much detail as you can provide.
“How do you like that?”
“You can’t do that!” Victor yelled. “That is . . .”
“Shut up. I don’t care whether you like it. But you will do it. If the government decides to bring a criminal case, you will plead guilty and accept whatever sentence they hand out. No negotiating. However, I suspect that you’ll get off. Aside from the disgusting reticence of the feds to actually prosecute anyone, they are going to be unusually busy dealing with the top 1% and tax avoidance around that time. So, I have my own punishment for you, which I’ll get to in a bit.”
“To reinforce this, I should explain what your dreams are going to be like going forward. Every night, you are going to dream my face. It will ask you questions. Questions like, ‘Should I declare all of my income to the IRS?’ and, ‘Is it okay to set up shelters to avoid paying as much tax as I can?’ And, ‘Should I live up to the idea that the purpose of low tax rates is to have money to pay to others?’ If you give the correct answer, the face will reward you with happy dreams. If you answer incorrectly, you will have nightmares of despair, terror, and loneliness. Your brain will eventually figure out the right answers, and you will come to live them.”
He peeled off another slip of paper.
“On my way out, I’m going to stop by HR and fill out a W-9 as a contractor. You will transfer $10 million to this bank account. List it as a consulting fee. Send a 1099 to the address I provide. It’s a dummy, so don’t bother digging into it. Don’t worry. I pay my taxes.”
“So, you dress like a punk, but you’re just in it for the money, like everyone else.”
The stranger laughed. “The money’s nice, but we’re about to get to what I’m really in it for. But first, a side question. I’ve singled you out to deal with first on my fairly long list, because, in addition to straight greed, you also like to run your mouth about Christian purity, hating gay people . . .”
“I do not hate gay people.”
Those eyes The pain went on long enough that Victor lost track of time.
“Yes, you do,” the man said when it finally stopped. “Maybe you’re lying to yourself about that, but you do. I have a lot of friends who are gay, and some who actually try to live the Gospels. I don’t, but they are nice people. On their behalf, I take this kind of personally. But, I have to ask, do you actually believe that evangelical bullshit, or is it all an act?”
“Of course I believe.”
He looked at Victor with those eyes. “Yes, I guess you do. That makes what I’m going to say next even better. Your daughters are out in the lounge. Well, the older two. Amanda is too young for me.”
“What are you going to . . .”
“Quiet.” He stood up, and opened the door. “Girls, come on in.”
Madison bounced in, dressed in the uniform of the elite private school she had graduated from in the spring. Jaimie entered more sullenly, in an expensive suit.
“You will say nothing, and just listen.” His previously casual voice had become harsh. “Nod if you understand.”
Victor head bobbed of its own will.
“I am going to spend a week with your daughters. I am going to fuck them silly over and over again, every day.” Jaimie glared at him, while Madison almost squealed with delight. “Seven days from now, they will be utter harlots. Sex will be all that they care about. It won’t be like what I did here, to you. It will be much slower. Much more enjoyable. For me and for Madison here. Jaimie will come around. Probably by Thursday.”
“By next week, they’ll be sluts on patrol. Ready to fuck anyone, and happy to do so.”
He slid in between the girls, putting his right arm around Jaimie’s shoulders and his left hand up Madison’s skirt.
“Oh, and one more thing. Just to let you know how much fun they’re having. Every time one of them has an orgasm, you will, too. Not just for the next week. Forever.”
He pivoted and started for the door.
“Come along girls. I just have a bit of paperwork to fill out, then we can start you on the next stage of your lives.”