CHAPTER THREE

Why that was so remained a mystery. Sales were up almost 200 percent and variable costs were down by 15 percent. Given the fact that fixed costs and product margins had remained constant, simple arithmetic told me that the station should be awash in profit rather than red ink. But according to the spreadsheet, it would post another quarterly loss.

Above the din of the air compressor, I could hear Rafael swearing in the adjacent automotive bay; and I half-expected him to come storming through my office door, screaming in Tagalog. A native of the Philippine Islands, he had come to the United States some 15 years before. Through competence and hard work he had become the chief mechanic at Landmark Mobil, and I valued his ability. Yet he was temperamental; and when frustrated, he was prone to tantrums. Making matters all the worse, he had a tendency to revert to his native dialect when overcome by emotion. 

He was also dishonest, and for that reason he was on my short list of suspects. From the first day of my arrival, Rafael had lied to me time and time again.  I would have fired him at the onset were it not for the fact that Washington was then in the grip of a severe labor shortage. Skilled mechanics were in particularly short supply, and I could not afford to dismiss him without first finding a suitable replacement.

I also knew that Rafael freelanced from his home garage, and I had at first suspected that parts and accessories were disappearing out the door to his home business. But if this were true, the stock shrinkage should have shown up in the spreadsheets by now.

The fact that they did not suggested that the problem lay with either Carl or Jean. Carl was an elderly black man who had worked at the station for a decade or more; and Jean was the majority stockholder of the corporation that operated it. Although Carl liked to play the fool - especially around whites – he possessed an exceptionally sharp mind. And as a young inner city hustler, he had compiled an impressive arrest record. According to Jean, he had been involved in major and minor crimes well into his twenties, when he had finally been sent to prison for killing another man with a knife. After his release, he found a more lucrative career in finance. Ordained as a deacon by an obscure Protestant denomination, he had supposedly managed the business operations of a church in Southeast Washington for many years. There he had accumulated a respectable fortune before the Church Elders uncovered his graft. Unwilling to expose the scandal, they had allowed him to retire comfortably to the suburbs.

Carl claimed that he had come to Landmark Mobile because he liked working outdoors, but I doubted that from the beginning. I was certain he was running some sort of hustle off the sales lot; but I had yet to uncover it. Jean was similarly convinced, but far more amused. In her mind it didn't matter what else Carl might be up to as long as he kept the customers happy and his hand out of the till.

Landmark Mobile had acquired a somewhat unsavory reputation in the past few years as a result of persistent rumors of drug usage by its employees. When I learned of this, I had at first attributed it to the motley crew of part-time teenagers who then worked the night shift. I had fired the lot of them the first week after my arrival, and replaced them with a more presentable crowd. But by now I had begun to wonder if the rumors had not been misplaced. The once faint suspicion that Carl was dealing drugs off the lot was fast hardening into an unproven conviction.

The fact that the majority stockholder was so unconcerned by her own presumption of Carl's criminality bothered me, as did her tight control of the station’s financial records. A bookkeeper by trade, she had won the station in a divorce settlement several years before. 

She was employed full-time at the U.S. Army's Cameron Station finance center, a quarter mile east on Duke Street. There she crunched numbers all day before descending upon the gas station for a half-hour to run the preceding days figures. These she marked up in the station’s financial ledgers, which she carried with her. On Monday mornings she dropped off a summary analysis of the preceding weeks business; and on the second or third day of each month, she provided me with a spreadsheet analysis.

Jean was aware of the ongoing losses at the station, but expressed faint concern for them. When I had suggested that Rafael may have been misappropriating parts, she assured me that the station’s purchase orders lined up with both job tickets and sales; and that stock shrink could not possibly be the cause of the station’s financial problems. When I pressed her further, she shrugged and breezed out of the office.

I would not have been too deeply concerned had it not been for my loyalty to Bouchey. I prided myself on my sales and managerial abilities, and I did not want to let him down. But by now I was convinced that his substantial investment was being siphoned off; and that there was no way I could protect him unless I uncovered the specifics.

It was almost 4 PM, and I knew Jean would soon arrive to run the preceding days numbers. I got up from my chair and headed out front, to dispatch Carl on a contrived errand. I gave him $100 cash out of the drawer, and told him to run down to Yates Auto Part's to pick up a special order. None of this was out of the ordinary, so I was reasonably convinced that it would not arouse his suspicions.

I walked back to the tiny management office in the rear, thinking through my strategy as I went. As I passed through the bays, I yelled at Rafael to call Yates and order a new water pump for my Monza, and to let them know that Carl was on his way to pick it up. The pump had started leaking a few days before; and the present situation provided a convenient excuse for fixing it.

I had not been seated for more than a few minutes when Jean made a ceremonious entrance. Feigning grave concern, I asked her to close the door and take a seat.

We had a serious problem, I said. After studying the situation from all possible angles, I had concluded that the only possible explanation for the station's continuing losses must be the theft of gasoline from the delivery truck. I speculated implausibly that the driver must be shorting our loads; and argued that he must be in league with a current employee. Because Carl normally signed for the deliveries, I forcefully informed her that I intended to fire him the following morning. 

It was an unlikely scenario, for the drops were subject to cross-reference by the tank readings, the pump readings and the sales figures. But I reasoned that my abrupt and forceful presentation would force her true colors; and I was not disappointed. Jean blanched, and shifted uneasily in her chair. After an interminable silence, she began rummaging through her purse for cigarettes; and as she lit a Virginia Slim, I noticed that her hands were shaking. Rather than rebut my argument, she looked away in anguish.

I waited silently, leaning on the desk with hands clasped before me. Finally, she nodded her head and agreed. As she picked up her paperwork, she advised me to be careful. Carl was dangerous, and he would not accept dismissal lightly. That said, she hurried out the door.

I continued to lean against the desk, searching deep inside for my true feelings. Although I no longer doubted that Jean and Carl were engaged in some sort of collusion, it was painful for me to admit. 

Jean had once been stunningly beautiful, and even now in her mid thirties she retained a certain radiance despite years of dietary excess. Before meeting her ex-husband, she had been a teenage model of great promise. But once she had married, her life had begun to go down hill; and it had continued in that direction ever since. Her husband had developed a drinking problem, and turned abusive; and the subsequent divorce had shaken her confidence to its very foundations. Despite a generous settlement that had included Landmark Mobile, she claimed to live in chronic poverty. Moreover, she was unable to free herself from her ex-husband’s grip.

He was a giant of a man, standing six foot two or three and weighing in at perhaps 250 pounds. He had dark hair and deep blue eyes, and an engaging grin. Poorly educated and playfully lecherous, he exuded an unusual charm that bespoke of another era. Jean had often told me that she loved him as deeply as the day she married him; and that if it were not for her children, she would have stayed with him forever. It was her fate to love him, and in a curious way I could understand why. For despite his outrageous faults, it was impossible to dislike him. 

Unfazed by the divorce, he continued to toy with Jean's mind and body thereafter. This made her life all the harder; but somehow, she refused to see it.

This had troubled me, for I had come to like Jean a great deal. Despite the fact that I had been imposed upon her by Bouchey, she treated me well. She had been friendly and thoughtful within acceptable bounds, and to the best of my knowledge unfailingly truthful with me in the past. And so it was difficult for me to reconcile my certain knowledge of her financial impropriety with the image of her my mind had constructed. I had no doubt that she was siphoning off Bouchey's investment, and I was convinced that Carl was actively involved in the effort. But I could not comprehend why.

Rather than dwell upon the mystery, I picked up the phone and called the Council for Inter-American Security. Bouchey's secretary answered and after a few minutes of playful flirtation, she put me through. A game had developed between us when I called, in which I pretended to hustle her and she pretended to be hustled. It was innocent fun, but I was by now tempted to push the bounds of fantasy. And so as I waited for Bouchey to close his office door, I toyed with the idea of inviting her to lunch. 

He had previously sworn to me her lack of appeal, and he may have even believed it. But Bouchey had impeccable taste, and from long experience I knew that it extended to his choice in secretaries. Only once had I seen his outer office graced by less than exquisite beauty. 

When he returned to the phone, I told him we had to meet as soon as possible; and somewhat to my surprise, he agreed without asking further. He told me that he would be leaving his Capitol Hill office in a few minutes, and suggested that I meet him at a now forgotten tavern in Annandale that lay on his route home. I wasn't familiar with the place, so I scribbled down his directions and checked the time. I would make it easily in the half-hour prescribed. 

After hanging up the phone I locked up the office and went out front. Pete had just arrived to take over the night shift. He had served as interim manager before I arrived, and knew all the procedures. I considered him trustworthy, and reasonably competent; and so I felt comfortable in taking the night off unscheduled. At the very least, he would keep the high school kids who worked the night shift out of trouble.

The drive to the tavern took 20 minutes in heavy traffic; and I spent most of the time in a quiet reverie. Things had not gone as smoothly as I had planned, but I was confident that they would work out nonetheless. Official Washington had remained fairly settled after Reagan's re-election three weeks before, and little turnover had occurred in either the executive or legislative branches, or in the non-profit public policy sector so closely affiliated with both. For that reason I presumed that the various think tanks would have relatively few openings; but with the Cold War heating up yet again, I was confident that my academic skills would still be in demand. I might have to send out a great number of resumes; but I was sure that I would be able to find something suitable as soon as I extricated myself from the gas station.

When I arrived at the bar I found Bouchey already seated at a corner table. He stood to greet me; and after we had shaken hands I sat down across from him. 

I was impressed with his discretion. The tavern was located in a small strip mall that was almost invisible from Duke Street.  And despite the bold banner advertising Happy Hour, it was almost deserted.  With the exception of three customers at the bar, the lounge area was empty.  Moreover, the two television sets that flanked the bar were sufficiently loud to drown out most conversation.

We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes until the waitress came to take our order. She disappeared, then reappeared momentarily to put two Miller Lite’s upon the table before once again vanishing into the back. Bouchey saluted me with his bottle, and took a deep drink. Then nestling the bottle on his right crossed knee, he asked the occasion. I took a drink of my own, and said "Lynn, its time to pull the plug on the gas station."

Bouchey grimaced, and shook his head. "Charlie, I wish you would have told me sooner." I shrugged and said, "I'm sorry Lynn, but I didn't know until this afternoon." 

He leaned forward, and with a look of deep concern asked me what had happened. I watched with some trepidation as his eyebrow’s knit together, and a tight frown appeared upon his face.

I leaned back in my chair and said, "Lynn, I'm not quite sure how to break this to you but I have strong reason to believe that Jean is embezzling the profits. I can’t prove that because she controls all the books and records; but on the basis of what happened this afternoon, I'm persuaded that she is stealing the corporation blind."

I took another drink of my beer and said, "I'm not quite sure how the scam works, but I believe that Carl is somehow involved with her." I then went on to explain the basis for my suspicions, and to recount in precise detail the conversation with Jean an hour before. 

Bouchey followed my arguments with close attention.  When I finished speaking, he nodded in agreement.  After a few moments of silence he shook his head in disgust and said, "I should have known."

I fished a cigarette from my pack on the table. "Lynn you have to pull your money out of there as quickly as possible.  As a manager and as a friend I would recommend that you call a Board of Directors meeting immediately, and demand that Jean produce all the financial records for independent inspection by a CPA. And I would get a resolution from the board directing that the current corporate checking account be closed and a new account opened, requiring two signatures on each check. Otherwise, I think you are going to lose your ass."

By now I could see that Bouchey was angry.  He shook his head and told me that it could not be done.  Taken aback, I asked him why. He paused for a long time, swishing his half-empty beer around in the bottle before finally explaining to me that his investment had not been entirely proper.  When he had become involved in Landmark Mobile, the Corporation was then in Chapter Eleven bankruptcy reorganization. Under the terms of the court's order, Jean was not allowed to sell or transfer additional stock during the period of re-organization. Far from an actual shareholder, he was an unofficial investor without legal standing.  Moreover, he was concerned that his loan to the Corporation was itself illegal.

Under any other circumstances, Bouchey explained that he would seek to safeguard his funds.  But at present, he could not.  Nor could he tell me why without my promise of complete confidentiality. Still stunned by his confession, I nodded in agreement. 

I knew that Bouchey was politically ambitious, but until that moment I had been entirely unaware that he had sought an ambassadorial appointment from the Reagan administration.  Given his relative age and lack of diplomatic experience, the White House had initially resisted. But as president of the Council for Inter-American Security, he had developed a close working relationship with the Republican members of the Senate Subcommittee on Latin America.  He had become particularly close to Sen. Jesse Helms; and in recent months, Helms had given him strong support. Although the Reagan administration had not yet signaled favorable intention, the word from Helm's office was that Bouchey was now on the short list for appointment. If nominated, he would have to undergo a Senate confirmation hearing; and given the central role he had played in rallying public opposition to the Panama Canal Treaty, Bouchey was rightly convinced that liberal Democrats would fiercely oppose him. Under the circumstances, he could not risk even the slightest possibility of scandal. 

I leaned back in my seat, pressing my beer bottle between my knees and wondered what to say. After a few minutes of silence, I asked Bouchey what he intended to do.  He shrugged, and shook his head. “ I'll have to find a way to persuade Jean to return the money. Assuming she still has it." He paused, and reached for the peanut bowl on the table.  "Charlie, this may take some time.  I’d like you to stay on at the station for a few more weeks, to keep an eye on things until I figure it out."

I nodded in agreement.  "No problem, Lynn.  I haven't really begun looking for a slot yet, so I have no reason not to stay on. I just want you to understand that I cannot protect your investment."

Bouchey nodded, and said he understood.  After a few more peanuts he asked me if I had anything particular in mind.  I shook my head and said no, I just wanted something that would allow me to work on Soviet naval strategy.  Bouchey said he would put me back on the CIS staff if he could, but the Board of Directors simply wouldn't allow it.  In an almost fatherly fashion he said, "Charlie, you ruffled a lot of feathers with that stunt you pulled at the White House."

With that I flushed. He was referring to the now infamous incident in which I had fired a politically well-connected fool from the Reagan Transition Team in 1981.  At the time I had been a policy analyst for CIS; and Lynn had loaned me to the White House at the request of Willa Johnson, who was then the Associate Director of White House Personnel for National Security Affairs. I had worked for Willa at the Heritage Foundation during the election campaign, helping to put together a database of prospective appointments for the first Reagan administration. It had been a monumental task; and because nothing like this had ever been undertaken before, it had been plagued by mischance. Under Willa’s close supervision, I was able to impose a measure order upon the otherwise chaotic effort; and when a similar situation developed at the White House, she had called me in to help once more. 

I leaned back in my chair defensively, “Lynn, it had to be done. The idiot was wreaking havoc upon the appointments process; and he was demanding a slot on the National Security Council. The Bush people were backing him; and if I hadn’t gotten rid of him he would have bumped one of our guys.”  I pointed my beer bottle at him for emphasis. “Lynn, you know that.”

Bouchey nodded. That was true, he said, but beside the point. To the extent that government functioned at all, it functioned through a set of unwritten rules. And Rule Number One was that no one was ever fired for incompetence. Players could be hung out to dry to cover for one more important, or they could be ceremoniously dumped for scandal. But they were never, ever fired for lack of ability; for if that standard were applied, the entire government would collapse like a house of cards. He leaned forward, and looked at me crossly. “This is something that you have to learn.” 

I rolled my eyes and looked away. I had heard this lecture a hundred times before, but I was still unpersuaded. His point was about process, and mine was about outcomes. Although the general populace was determined to deny it, the United States was gravely imperiled. The nation was at continuous risk to accident, incompetence or miscalculation; and for that reason, I felt strongly that the traditional free pass for stupidity had to end. But I knew that my attempt to enforce minimal competency standards at the White House had contributed greatly to my long exile in the wilderness; and so I promised myself that I would be more careful in the future.

I repeated that promise to Bouchey, who chuckled softly. With raised eyebrows and a skeptical grin, he said: “We’ll see.”

With that he reached for his wallet, signaling the end to our meeting. “Call me every day to check in, OK?”  I nodded and said that I would.

As he stood up, he told me to keep him informed about the job search. He would go out on a limb for me, and intercede on my behalf wherever he could. Knowing the brutality of the political sandbox, I thanked him sincerely. For in a town where career advancement is a blood sport, a powerful patron was a decided advantage. 

It was only after Bouchey had left that my secret life rose to objection. Success would depend upon far more than just discretion; for unlike so many others who served in the executive branch, or worked on Capitol Hill, or who labored in the think tanks and public policy centers around the Beltway, it would also depend upon hidden forces operating far beyond my control. 

From somewhere deep within, a skeptical voice wished me well.