The Bonus

The Bonus

By Anthony Spohr

Copyright 2020 by Anthony Spohr

"Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – The Big Deal

Chapter 2 – The Loophole

Chapter 3 – The Plan

Chapter 4 – The Proposal

Chapter 5 – The Glitch

Chapter 6 – The Mandate

Chapter 7 – The Abomination

Chapter 8 – The RFPs

Chapter 9 – The Cat

Chapter 10 – The Die is Cast

Chapter 11 – The Project

Chapter 12 – The Visitors

Chapter 13 – The Catch-22

Chapter 14 – The Spirit House

Chapter 15 – The Completion Guarantee

Chapter 16 – The Beetles

Chapter 17 – The Beach

Chapter 18 – The Auditor

Chapter 19 – The Licenses

Chapter 20 – The Kidnapping

Chapter 21 – The Closing

Chapter 22 – The Semtex

Chapter 23 – The Race

Chapter 24 – The Attack

Chapter 25 – The Musing

Chapter 1

The Big Deal

Three miles off the African coast thirty story superstructures stood above a rolling sea. Flickering lights cast dancing shadows over a mass of pipes, cranes and rusted platforms on which grizzled men went about the business of extracting oil from far below the ocean floor.

Ashore Djembe drums throbbed as a mob of straw hut people screamed and shook their fists at a naked man staked to the ground. The largest of the hut people closed in on the naked man, bared his rotting teeth, and spat on him. The others shrieked in approval. The giant silenced them with a pound of his spear, raised a large machete like dagger and slashed the naked man’s heavy vine shackles.

The naked man struggled to his feet as the giant wound a necklace of thorny vines around his neck. A Goliath beetle dangled from it, writhing in pain from the vine jammed through its thorax. The naked man shook with fear at the beetle hanging from his chest as he backed away, then turned and bolted into the tangled brush.

Shrill cries of Thief! Thief! rang out as the natives raised spears and crashed into the forest where the man vanished. Thirty yards ahead of them their prey thrashed through the thick underbrush as the Goliath beetle flapped its horny wings. Blood spurted from the naked man’s chest where the beetle sank its jaws.

The naked man fell, got up, then fell again.

A spear streaked past his head.

He jerked himself up and hurled his battered body through the jangled thicket as the trailing screams of Thief! Thief! grew louder.

He dove through a small opening in the brush as colobus monkeys leapt in treetops and fruit bats shrieked, then gasped on seeing a great Okoume tree blocking his way.

The naked man turned just as the giant hurtled forward and drove his spear through the man’s chest and into the Okoume’s massive trunk. His bowels discharged, his lungs sucked last gasps, and his heart hemorrhaged. His convulsing body fell still. The giant ripped the Goliath beetle from the dead man’s chest and thrust it overhead in victory.

Six thousand miles to the east a half full cocktail glass was raised in a triumphant toast. Well-dressed men and women, somewhat ruffled from the evening’s festivities, laughed in giddy celebration. Dinner plates had long since been cleared from the tables. Half eaten desserts sat among the empty wine bottles and anxious bus boys lurked about in the shadows as the revelers enjoyed the posh luxury of the extravagant wine cellar. The people of Jamieson & Reid stood and sat, gossiped, drank and tried to talk above the din as the night moved on.

John Lybrand, managing partner of J&R, Libby to most people in the firm, clanged a glass with his fork, trying to get some quiet, all the while holding his glass in the air. People initially paid little attention, but gradually simmered down.

"Hey, everybody, no speeches, I swear. But before we wrap up here y’all just have to toast this fantastic accomplishment. Everyone has worked hard to get this deal done. Some of you spouses probably feel as though you’ve been neglected for months. And you probably have. No one, though, has done more to get this deal done, has lived with the many ups and downs on this day and night, than our Superman. He continues to make us all believers. Frank Nesbitt. Stand up. Take a well-deserved bow. You are the man!"

Frank Nesbitt, sat at a table in the direct center of the room. He ascended from his chair puffing on a long thin cigar and stretching to his full six foot four inches. Unlike most of the other men in the room, Nesbitt still wore his suit jacket. His silk tie was perfectly in place, and his hair, graying at the temples, was slicked back like a sleek Arabian in the winner’s circle. He rose, surveyed the room and smiled.

Thank you, John. Thank you everybody.

On familiar ground, Nesbitt gestured like the lead actor in the fiftieth performance of a hit Broadway show. No further words were necessary. He raised his glass in a toasting nod to the crowd and sat back down to bask in the applause from his colleagues, the fawning of young secretaries and junior associates and the approving nods from the J&R management committee. As the applause died, people gathered around the center table to offer their individual congratulations to Nesbitt, then resumed conversations secure in the knowledge that the firm was doing well indeed.

An hour later, the J&R crowd congregated on the steps outside the restaurant waiting for their cars to be delivered by the many valet attendants grabbing tickets, whistling and disappearing at full run into the black of the subterranean garage.

Tim Farley, drunk, searched his pockets for a tip to give the valet, found none and piled into the passenger side of his Ford Explorer. His wife, Terry, made weak parting gestures to those still waiting for their cars. Farley’s nasty habit of scratching his head when engaged in serious drinking left his hair sticking out in all directions. The bottom of his overcoat, caught in the door, flapped in the breeze as the SUV drove off.

A few awkward moments passed before Farley slurred an interruption to the heavy silence.

That Nesbitt’s one arrogant son of a bitch. Did you see him? Did you?

Farley stared at the side of Terry’s head as though he was examining her soft brown ringlets for the first time. She looked straight ahead, ignoring him.

These deals fall into his lap, manna from heaven.

Terry wiped the fogged-up windshield with her hand as she drove down the dark, deserted streets to their home in Elmsford.

Those ring-knocker buddies of his…feeding him deals… Farley shifted his muddled gaze to the road ahead, hiccupped, and babbled on unfazed. "I worked on my deal—"

For nine months, I know. Terry rolled her eyes. "You personally went out, groveled, kissed ass, made never-ending presentations, brought in the job. Please, Tim, I know already."

Nobody dropped it in my lap. Worked my ass off to get it done.

Terry tightened her grip on the steering wheel. We’ve been over this a million times. It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could do about it.

Management Committee says I’m not aggressive enough. The damn thing craters two weeks before the Close.

Please tell me all about it again, Tim.

Corporate objectives have changed they tell me. $600,000 in bonuses down the gurgler.

Farley stared straight ahead and closed his eyes. The faint snarl of a snore introduced itself. Terry relaxed.

But that lucky bastard? Farley’s eyelids popped open. His deals just glide through to the Closing slick as a greased pig. No sweat. No strain. Man, I could have made some real money.

Damn it, Tim. Does everything always have to be about money?

Here we go again. Farley turned and looked out the side window.

What about integrity? Terry asked. I guess it’s okay to give that up to make the big bucks on one of these sleazy deals.

They’re not all sleazy, Farley said as he raised his forefinger and shook it in the air. Anyway, I have integrity.

You covered it up pretty well tonight making a total jackass of yourself in front of everybody.

So what? Farley said. Sixteen years of integrity haven’t gotten me admitted to the partnership.

It’ll come, Terry said, softening.

It just pisses me off that Nesbitt gets all the breaks. All I ask for is one big deal. Just one.

Guess my father didn’t teach you anything? Terry said.

Farley shrugged and scratched his head back and forth further tangling his wavy hair.

Never took vacations, afraid to miss the phone call that would land him the huge insurance account. For what? Dead at 46.

Terry stopped for a red light and turned to Farley. Her expression sincere as she let her eyes fall on Farley’s tussled hair.

Look at Phil, she said. He doesn’t make much but he’s happy.

Phil? Come on.

What do you mean? He’s relaxed, never up tight. He’s got the same credentials you have.

Phil copped out, Farley said, working for the city. The guy’s a loser.

Terry smiled. That’s my brother you’re talking about.

Farley laughed. I’m sorry, he said. You know I love him but…

Phil says a high-powered guy like you could run the place down there…all that responsibility, and you’d be doing a lot of good for people who really need help.

You got to be kidding. The city? No way to make any money.

Let them keep the money, hot shot, I didn’t marry you for money.

Farley met his wife’s eyes. They were earnest. He firmed his chin, nodded and forced a smile.

Chapter 2

The Loophole

Except for the soft glow of yellow lamps, the streets of White Plains were dark. Unlike nearby New York City, White Plains shut down at dusk, holding on to its old ways in spite of recent burgeoning growth. A few stragglers here and there scurried for the train station, bounded up the stairs to the elevated platform and slipped behind the closing doors of the last scheduled train for the evening. It was four hours since the downtown office buildings disgorged their weary workers punctuating the end of the normal business day. The usual single string of lights, however, glowed bright across the fourteenth floor of 765 Boston Post Road, the offices of Jamieson & Reid, Certified Public Accountants.

Towers of reference books and client files created canyons and palisades on the tables, chairs and floors in Tim Farley’s office. Barely visible among the rubble were photographs of his family, three buddies in wet suits raising beer steins and the 1986 New York Mets, all peering from behind tax volumes, Styrofoam coffee cups and the many Lucite cubes of his past financial deals. Bazooka bubble gum wrappers and waxy comics littered his desk. Farley resolved to leave in fifteen minutes. These after-hours fifteen-minute periods came almost every night in two to three-hour chunks. Over the past sixteen years they kept him from his family for thousands of hours.

Farley hunched over law books looking like an old man tinkering at his work bench. Structured finance, the so-called deal business, hadn’t aged him well. He looked every bit his forty-two years. After undergraduate school, he flourished for six years in the Navy’s SEAL Team program where his sheer toughness and determination to be a Navy SEAL qualified him for the Team. His superiors admired his spunk, dedication and devotion to the Team, although they sometimes downgraded him for what they judged to be some reluctance to tackle the big jobs.

The hour was late, and he was dog-tired. Through bleary eyes Farley stumbled across what he thought might be a loophole in recent tax legislation in Kanbia, a small West African country. While scouring the new Kanbian tax law, Frank Nesbitt looked in on Farley.

Farley, go home. There’s no one left to impress, especially now that I’m leaving.

Farley grunted without looking up. Yeah, see you tomorrow.

What the hell’s got you so wrapped up? asked Nesbitt as he put on his overcoat.

Kanbian taxes.

Kanbian taxes? Nesbitt shook his head. Don’t they still eat each other over there?

Farley looked up. Smirked.

Sounds like another of Farley’s foolish follies, said Nesbitt.

Nesbitt wrapped a scarf around his neck, picked up his bag and disappeared down the hall.

The ship’s clock buried under papers on Farley’s desk chimed five bells. 10:30. Familiar guilt grabbed him in the stomach as it did just about every night, even though it had never changed his work ethic. He dropped his pencil, wadded up his Bazooka and chucked it in the trash can, but made no attempt to straighten anything up. In one athletic motion he picked up his bag, put on his coat and, after hurdling files and assorted reference books on the floor, trotted to the elevator. Behind him the desks of the audit staff were clean, files back in the file room, everything put away properly.

A fresh breeze blew autumn debris around the front yards of middle-class homes in Elmsford, an easily commutable suburb of White Plains, as morning light seeped through the low clouds. Farley was already up watching the coming day through the blinds of the upstairs bedroom window of his two-story home. After five hours of sleep he was wide-awake. The apparent loophole in the Kanbian tax law gnawed at him as he stared at the yellow-brown whirlpools of leaves swirling in his driveway.

Farley was no stranger to the early morning. As a Navy SEAL twenty years earlier, he woke up at 3:30 A.M. and plunged into cold seawater by 4:15. The ensuing years had modified his waking time to a more civilized 5:30, and though he never thought he would after leaving the Navy, he kept in shape by daily practice of some of the fundamental skills learned over many months of insane training in the Basic Underwater Demolition/Seal Program, the infamous BUD/S School.

The typical day for Farley began with a timed three mile run at 5:45 down the paved streets of Elmsford followed in the back yard by the basic calisthenics required during the First Phase of BUD/S training and fifteen minutes of the ninjutsu and Israeli krav maga moves he had practiced incessantly in the SEAL’s hand-to-hand martial arts training. In spite of the vigorous one-hour workout, the early morning was still the best time for Farley. He relished the stillness, the opportunity to communicate with one’s self, the time to contemplate without the constant interruptions of the regular day.

As usual Farley was first in the kitchen, not counting Charley, their Golden Retriever, who slept there. Charley looked up with big brown eyes as Farley flipped on the lights, then turned and opened the front door. Charley jogged outside, took care of some fundamentals, picked up the newspaper and returned to the house. Farley patted him on the head and slipped the paper under his arm.

Farley made coffee by rote to suck down the first of what was likely to be a minimum of ten cups throughout the day. He planted himself at the table and burrowed into the paper. Charley crawled under the table and snuggled at his feet.

Richard’s a wreck, Terry said as she flip-flopped into the room in her favorite bedroom slippers and comfortable powder blue, slightly worn robe, put her arm around Farley’s neck and kissed him on the forehead.

Farley smiled up at her. He was up when I got in last night.

What a kid, Terry said pouring herself some coffee, someone’s filling his head with ideas.

What do you mean? Farley said without looking up from the paper.

He doesn’t have to go to Princeton. Terry turned to the sink and poured out her coffee.

Princeton? Farley looked up, frowning.

I would have been happy to go to SUNY, Terry said. Can’t believe I just did that. She shook her head and poured herself another cup of coffee.

Richard, eighteen and gangly, with hair looking like a rat’s nest, appeared and pulled out a chair, juggling orange juice and coffee as he sat down at the table. He tickled Priscilla, his pig-tailed seven-year-old sister, who was already seated, absorbing the conversation.

Well, Tiger, you look a little better than you did last night.

Thanks, Dad. Richard looked at Priscilla, held his stomach and feigned nausea.

You’ll do fine. Farley gave him a thumbs up. Relax. You can’t study for those things.

I can’t believe Ivy League schools still rely on something as barbaric as the SATs, Richard said.

Ivy League schools, Richard? Terry said. What happened to SUNY.

The guidance counselor thinks I can get into an Ivy League school.

Can he get you a scholarship? Farley said as he reached across the table for another section of the paper.

Patrick’s Dad went to Princeton.

Richard grabbed some toast and smothered it in jam.

Says it can open a lot of doors for you.

What kind of doors? Terry asked.

He’d give me a recommendation, Richard said, his mouth chock-full, his words barely decipherable.

Pretty expensive, Farley said, raising his eyebrows.

You don’t think we could handle it?

Who said that? Farley rubbed his chin. Give it your best shot, he said.

Farley grimaced as he whipped the Ford Explorer out of the driveway. Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Minor blasted from the CD player. He’d love to see his son go to Princeton. After getting his MBA in Taxation years ago, Farley was proud of himself and ready to conquer the business world. Money would be plentiful, the natural by-product of a successful career. But he enjoyed only moderate success. It was enough for the family to be comfortable, but he felt stifled, unable to break into the inner sanctum. A fancy Ivy League degree would have given him access to big hitters in the deal business, pretty much a closed ring knockers club.

Farley pulled up to a small house in downtown Elmsford on the border between the marginally livable and the clearly unlivable section of town. He had promised to pick up Roger Lambeau, a couple years out of law school, now working for Farley. The slave wages paid associates in the first few years of servitude at J&R resulted in Lambeau’s ancient Alpha Spider spending at least half its time in the shop. Farley turned Rachmaninoff down to barely audible.

Good morning, Tim. Farley’s eyes widened at Lambeau’s bright red bow tie as he climbed into the car. Thanks for picking me up…again.

No problem. How’s that classic Spider of yours?

Some classic. Two weeks ago I had a new clutch put in; now it’s the transmission, said Lambeau.

Farley made a deep sucking sound.

Money, money, money! Lambeau shook his head, pulled some papers from his briefcase and fussed with them in his lap.

Farley laughed. You think you got it bad? My son just told me he wants to go to Princeton.

Lambeau looked up over the top of his glasses. That’s great.

Yeah, I guess I’ll just set aside a quarter mill from my savings account.

Should be no problem for a Managing Director at Jamieson & Reid, said Lambeau.

Sure, as soon as I close a couple of deals for IBM and General Motors.

Ever had a deal with anybody like that? Lambeau said, his eyes flashing.

Farley bit his lip. Those companies won’t talk to anyone other than the Wall Street firms.

Speaking of deals… Lambeau picked up one of the papers in his lap… I am buried in To Do’s, thanks to you. Should the White Plains Transit job be first priority?

We need to keep going on that.

Excellent, Lambeau said, stuffing the papers back in his bag.

But I found something last night that’s pretty intriguing. Like you to help me with it this morning.

What is it? Lambeau exuded the enthusiasm only a brand-new lawyer could muster.

A new tax law in Kanbia.

Kanbia? You mean like in Africa Kanbia?

That’s the one, Farley said. I need you to research a few things.

Wonderful, said Lambeau. I’ve been itching to fine tune my Kanbian tax skills. It’s why I went to law school.

Yeah, well, okay, wise ass, but be in my office at ten o’clock.

Nothing was changed when Farley reached his office. The frustrated midnight cleaning people dusted his piles of books and files without noticeable effect but couldn’t vacuum or otherwise clean up his office because of the clutter. In fact, Farley had given them specific instructions to touch nothing in his office, one little change irretrievably altering his unique filing system. The floor hadn’t been vacuumed in six months. The Kanbian tax service was still open on his desk exactly as he left it. Farley threw his coat over a chair and sat down. Like a caveman nurturing the tiniest spark in the hopes of turning it into a raging fire, Farley returned to studying the Kanbian tax provision.

A weird chill wormed its way up Farley’s spine, the feeling he often got when he thought he might’ve stumbled onto the ingredients for the really big deal. One big deal would ensure his chances for partnership and big money, his reason for joining the structured finance department of Jamieson & Reed in the first place. That decision also gave him the weird chill sixteen years ago. He agonized over joining J&R or one of the Big Four but decided on J&R for the entrepreneurial spirit he didn’t sense in the Big Four firms and J&R’s generous bonus program. Although miniscule by the standards of the Big Four, J&R’s prestigious client base was the envy of the local financial services community which led them to organize their structured finance department long before the Big Four ever considered anything like it.

At precisely 10:00 A.M. Lambeau appeared at Farley’s doorway, bright, eager and cocky. With his jacket off, Lambeau’s bright red tie was now matched by his fire engine red suspenders.

So what do we need to do on this Kanbian stuff?

Lambeau picked up a stack of files from a chair and looked around the room for a place to put them. Finding no decent spot, he added them to a teetering tower of other files by the window and plopped down into Farley’s guest chair.

Farley looked up. Don’t sit down.

Should I stand at attention, sir? Lambeau popped up and clicked his heels.

At ease, sailor, said Farley. I’ve listed the things I need researched here.

Farley reached across the desk and handed Lambeau a couple of pages of notes. Lambeau scanned the list and looked up.

Jawohl, mein meister. Lambeau clicked his heels again and turned to leave the room.

Spend the next few hours trying to come up with answers for the questions on that list. Let’s get together again at 3:00 this afternoon.

Lambeau materialized once again in Farley’s doorway at 3:00 P.M. The economy of Kanbia is in the tank, said the lawyer, juggling reference books which he dropped on the floor. It’s one of the poorest countries.

Tell me something I don’t know. Farley said. What about the tax deduction rules?

They definitely have broad sweeping tax deductions in the new legislation, Lambeau said with an affirmative nod.

What about the apparent flaw I mentioned in my notes? Does it look like they screwed it up?

Lambeau hesitated for a moment, crossing his legs to reveal his red and grey argyles while biting down on his yellow Ticonderoga.

I should look at it some more…but I think you’re right. Lambeau adjusted his glasses as he scanned the page of text in front of him. They seem to have made a blatant error. But so what?

So what, my friend, is Thunder Oil’s Murmansk Project, said Farley.

And what’s that?

Thunder Oil’s been drooling for years over bringing oil up from the seabeds north of the Siberian coast. They think the largest reserves in the world are there.

So, what’s preventing them? said Lambeau.

Too cold, too political, too expensive.

How expensive? asked Lambeau with fresh faced interest.

Three and a half billion just for the basic infrastructure costs. Farley unwrapped a Bazooka and popped a wad in his mouth.

Whoa! Lambeau’s eyes widened. And they still find it attractive?

They think they can bury the competition if they could lock up the business from exploiting those reserves.

Their stock’s up. Lambeau said. Why don’t they just raise the money in the public market?

Might cause the stock price to drop, dilute shareholders, make it harder to hit earnings targets. Farley shrugged. At least that’s what they tell me.

Sounds like you’re not buying it, said Lambeau.

"They’re not real anxious for everybody to know the