Rodriguez Series

3. Meet The Cyclist Club Members

Justine Godfrey grew up as the heiress to a family that made billions of dollars in the oil business. She always looked the part with her hair pulled back, dripping in jewelry, and speaking like a socialite from the ‘50s. Forty- five years old and single, she claimed that most men were annoying and adolescent in their actions. Most men found her snobbish and condescending. Two years ago, her parents died in a fire in their summer mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut, under suspicious circumstances. Being the sole beneficiary and the fact that she was able to escape the fire lent an air of mystery to the entire incident. Speculation wasn"t proof, however; and authorities went through the evidence and eventually ruled the fire an accident. Ms. Godfrey, inheriting her family’s entire fortune, wasted no time in restoring the mansion to its original glory. You can have all the money in the world and still be bored, but Justine Godfrey had a remedy for that. Ms. Godfrey was a human trafficker. Her network of contacts in the trade extended from Eastern Europe to Asia. Her associates, members of organized crime across many countries, were hardcore killers and gangsters but played by her rules. With her money, she could reach across oceans to find people to do her bidding. She was looking forward to Friday when the private club where she was a member notified her that they were meeting.

Edward Viscount (aka Eddie the Vis), as he was known, was an arrogant, self-centered, and immoral fading rock star. His career had lately taken a downturn due to d**g and alcohol a***e and the fact that nobody could work with him. Today he was in Los Angeles, waking up in the Beverly Hills Hotel, having performed at a less than brilliant concert the night before. It was noon and the hot sun pouring into his room spotlighted the cocaine and bottles of Jack Daniels strewn about the room. Did I forget to mention the dead p********e in his bed? Lying in bed and staring at her body, Eddie thought that maybe she was still sleeping. He reached over to feel for a pulse; but as soon as his hand touched her cold wrist, he screamed and jumped out of bed. He took a few hits of cocaine and reached for his cell phone. He called Jack, no last name. Jack maintained a low profile and stayed in the shadows. His job was to clean up celebrity messes, and this was quite a mess. Jack agreed to take the assignment for a rather large fee, of course. He made arrangements with Eddie the Vis to let him and his associate into the room and to then disappear for a few hours. Eddie did as he was told. A few hours later he received a text telling him that his room was ready. Eddie returned to a pristine room, no cocaine, no Jack Daniels bottles, and best of all, no dead p********e. His cell phone chimed a reminder: "Cyclist Club Meeting Friday."

Ali Bakar sunned himself on the French Riviera, his tanned body paunchy and flabby, but that never stopped him from wearing a Speedo. Wearing a fake beard and a toupee of a mousey reddish-brown color, Ali"s chosen career path was trafficking in weapons of all types. It didn"t matter to Ali in whose hands they ended up so long as he got paid. He was lying on a chaise de plage (beach chair to most of us) looking up and down the beach for his contact. He summoned the waiter to bring him another drink. The waiter returned with the drink and an envelope and motioned to a man sitting at the hotel bar. The man raised his drink as if making a toast and Ali Bakar returned the gesture. He opened the envelope. The note read: “room thirty-four at five o"clock.” Ali arrived at the room on time and was greeted by the contact who handed him a list of weapons, advising that Ali would receive the weapons when he paid the money. Ali never intended to pay the man. Putting a knife to the man’s throat, he demanded to know where the weapons were or he would kill him. The men struggled. Ali stabbed the man repeatedly, killing him. Now, Ali didn"t have the weapons and he had murdered a man for no reason. He stuffed the body between the mattress and the box spring, cleaned up the room, and cautiously made his way out the door, taking the stairs up to his room. He removed his disguise and went to the front desk to check out. The man behind the counter asked if everything was to his satisfaction as he was checking out early. Ali responded that he must leave. He had an important meeting this Friday in New York.

It was a hot night in Las Vegas and the roulette table was just as hot. Ray Salerno, a degenerate gambler and alcoholic, made money by arranging high-stakes poker games for organized crime families in Vegas; however, Ray never learned from his mistakes. He continued to gamble, and he continued to lose. He had hit the Mega Millions lottery for twenty-five million dollars but had squandered most of it due to his gambling and decadent lifestyle. His addiction to prostitutes and cocaine had made him behave recklessly, and he"d been borrowing money from a Vegas loan shark called "Freddie the Hammer." Freddie earned this nickname by, you guessed it, using a hammer to encourage people to pay their debts. Fingers, toes, it didn"t matter—whichever was closest. Right now, a couple of Freddie’s goons were looking for Ray because he owed Freddie $15,000; and the grace period had run out. The roulette wheel spun; and with each spin, Ray’s pile of chips got smaller. The spin of the wheel mesmerized Ray until a little voice in his head told him to look up. That little voice had never failed him, and he spied two of Freddie’s goons coming across the casino floor. One of them was carrying a paper bag with, you guessed it, a hammer inside. Ray ran for the nearest exit and noticed a conveniently-placed fire extinguisher hanging on the wall. He grabbed it and told himself to go for the eyes. The men turned the corner and walked into a wall of fire extinguisher foam. They rubbed their eyes, coughed, and gagged as Ray kept spraying. The bag with the hammer dropped to the floor and Ray, not missing an opportunity, began bashing the men with the hammer. Ray had morphed into Freddie—fingers, toes, whichever was closest, it didn"t matter. The men rolled on the floor begging for him to stop, but Ray was already on his way to the bus station. It was sunrise in Vegas as Ray settled back in his seat. A young kid sitting across with his mother asked him where he was going. Ray answered that he was headed to New York City. He had to be there by Friday to meet some friends.

The closing bell on Wall Street signaled another upmarket. Carlyle Bolton III was a happy man. He managed his family’s finances, and they were doing quite well. Carlyle learned everything he knew from his father, Carlyle II. The Bolton family made their money by investing in both small and large businesses and, when they became profitable, taking a percentage of assets. This business model wasn"t lucrative enough for Carlyle, so he invested in these companies, took all the assets, fired the workers, and left a blank space where a thriving business once was. Carlyle sat in the back of a limousine as it wound its way up Park Avenue having a heated discussion on his cell phone. He was becoming agitated and his voice rose with anger. He shouted into the phone, “You told me this week! What the f**k happened?” There was a pause then he screamed again, “How tough can it be? It"s just kids. If you scare them, they"ll do whatever the f**k you want!” The driver began to take notice of the conversation and was looking in the rearview mirror. Carlyle screamed again, “I know it"s against the law; but for me, it"s like a d**g!” There was another pause then Carlyle screamed, “Get them from Russia or China. I don"t give a f**k! I know they’re cracking down on that kiddie s**t, but so what. I"m tired of looking at the same old shit.” There was a pause and he remarked, “I can"t on Friday. My private club is meeting.” There was another pause then he responded, “If I tell you then it"s not private anymore, is it asshole?” The driver had heard enough. He slammed on the brakes and pulled over. He went to the back and pulled open the passenger door. “Get out of my limousine. Now,” he ordered in his African accent. The driver was about six foot four and looked like he worked out a lot, a whole lot. “I will not ask again.” Carlyle said to the driver, “You can"t kick me out, I"ll get a cop.” The driver reached in, yanked Carlyle’s phone out of his hand, and said: “I think the officer might be interested in the last person you were speaking to.” Carlyle replied, “I"ll get a lawyer and sue your company and you.” “No, you won"t because I know where you live; and if you tell my company, I will tell the police. Now get out.” Carlyle reached for his briefcase and his coat and muttered under his breath, “Goddam monkey.” He got out of the limousine and as he walked away, the driver kicked him in the a*s. Carlyle turned and exclaimed, “What the f**k are you doing? You assaulted me!” The driver smiled and replied, “That was for calling me a monkey. Goodbye.”

Thomas Deville, President and CEO of Deville Marketing, ran a multi-level marketing business. The authorities called it mail fraud and a pyramid scheme. Nonetheless, Thomas made millions from this illegal endeavor. Some wondered how he had the time to verbally and physically assault his wife and children, maintain a millionaire lifestyle and run a "business." Tonight, Thomas was particularly pissed off because he suspected one of his partners was talking to the authorities. After a night of drinking and hanging out with some friends and a variety of prostitutes, he figured it was time to go home and show his family who was boss. He arrived home and began to yell, scream, and berate everyone, including the dog. Mrs. Deville decided she"d had enough; and as he raised his hand to slap her face, she grabbed a very expensive Asian vase and brought it down on Mr. Deville’s head. Later, when Thomas woke up, and not having learned anything, he went into a profanity-laced tirade, shouting his wife’s name. He searched the house; but there was no one there, not even the dog. Closets were empty. One car was gone, the most expensive one by the way; and all the jewelry, including his, was gone. He began to dial the police and realized that he couldn’t. You know—investigations and all that. So poor Thomas Deville consoled himself with the fact that on Friday night his private club was meeting, one of his favorite things to do. He went to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a drink, and continued drinking until he passed out on the living room floor.

Jane Michaels was a State Senator who had taken the phrase “crooked politician” to a whole new level. Her appetite for lobbyist cash was insatiable. Today she was awaiting the arrival of an envelope full of cash from a Chinese solar energy company looking to squeeze out its American competition. What she didn’t know was that the person delivering the money was not who he claimed to be. Senator Michaels gave her staff the rest of the day off so they would be alone. He arrived on time and the Senator showed him into her office. They exchanged pleasantries, how’s the weather, how was the flight, do you have the money, blah, blah, blah. The man reached for the envelope in the side pocket of his jacket revealing a small microphone which didn’t go unnoticed by the good Senator. She remarked, “Not here. These offices are bugged.” Of course, they weren’t, because if they were, half of Washington would be in prison. The man played along so as not to tip off Senator Michaels. She continued, “I know a quiet little place that’s not too far. We can have a drink and you can give it to me there.” The two had a grand old time talking, laughing, and flirting. Senator Michaels bought all the rounds, gin and tonic with a lot of gin for him, and club soda for her. Round four and the heavy guns came out, the old mickey fin for the gentleman. If Senator Michaels was anything, she was not unattractive, with a mane of blonde hair and blue eyes. She had a Midwest look reminiscent of an aging beauty queen. The flirting was over, and the scene shifted to the no-tell motel across the street where she had enough time to walk with the gentleman before the mickey took effect. It seemed that the combination of gin and fin was too much for the poor man’s heart, and he expired on the stained bedspread. The wire, the money, and her disguise all left the room with her. The man, unfortunately, could not because he was dead. She returned to her office and removed the blonde wig and the blue contacts; and instantly, she looked like Sophia Loren instead of a Barbie doll. She grabbed her luggage and, in a flash, was on the 4:20 Amtrak Acela to New York for the Friday meeting.