Chapter 20 – Harrison
TWENTY
HARRISON
Later that afternoon
Isat in the back of our largest cafe in Queens, sipping a peppermint latte while thinking about Andrea.
I tried to find a flaw in this drink, but there wasn’t one.
As usual.
The taste of the coffee wasn’t a problem, and no matter how many focus groups dissected the differences between ours and anyone else’s, the results were always the same.
We were the best. Period.
I picked up a croissant and spotted Ciara walking through the door.
Looking slightly disheveled in a blue suit, she moved toward me and plopped into a chair.
“You should take a couple hours off,” I said. “Looks like you need them.”
“Most sane people would suggest a couple ‘days’ off, not hours, Harrison.”
“Well, you know that’s not happening.” I smiled. “But I will add ‘insane’ to the list of ways you like to describe me.”
“Thanks.” She handed me a sheet. “I came here to bring you great news.”
“Tell me.”
“As of now, we’re only missing four hundred million dollars.”
“Please go look up the word ‘great’ in the dictionary.”
“We’re running out of accounts to check, but thank goodness for Miss Stone, you know? She really is brilliant.”
“Miss Stone is a lot of things…”
“You’re going to promote her soon, right?” she asked. “She should be using her time on way better things than tasks for you, and I know you know that.”
“Yes…” I did know that, but there was another conundrum at play. She was—by far—the best assistant I’d ever had. Replacing her would mean tolerating mediocrity.
“Anything you want me to take back to the team?” She stood up. “Praise for all their hard work? Notes to keep them moving despite being tired as hell?”
“I’m already planning to give them a bonus,” I said. “I think that’s enough.”
“Whatever. See you back there soon.”
“Wait a second, Ciara,” I said. “I need to ask you something.”
“Yeah?”
“Is my public image that terrible?”
“Terrible would be the understatement of the century,” she said. “I think it’s more ‘atrocious’ or ‘abominable.’”
“Forget I asked.”
“Like you care, though.” She smiled. “You don’t need people to like you.”
“No, but I would like to be better at interviews,” I said, holding back my true thoughts. “Miss Stone has suggested that I model my public persona after Steve Jobs moving forward.”
“That could definitely work.” She nodded. “He was a tyrant but a likable one to the public, so—again, brilliant job, Miss Stone. Go for it—gotta go, though.”
She walked away, and I opened the “How to look at the interview” guide from Andrea on my phone.
Picking up where I left off, a new message flashed across my screen.
Therapist (Don’t Answer)
Your housekeeper let me know you finally slept in your bed a few weeks ago. Progress!
Ready to resume your sessions with me?
I was tempted to tell him that I had yet to spend a single second on my mattress, but I ignored him.
I spent the next two hours looking at Andrea’s notes, not wanting to admit that her strategy was exactly what I needed. Exactly what I should’ve had years ago.
As the cafe began to fill with customers who were getting off work, I moved outside to my town car.
“Take me back to headquarters, Francis,” I said.
“Yes, sir.”
He pulled onto the road and suddenly jerked to a stop.
Bang! Banggg! Bang!
I looked to my left and saw Aaron banging on the window. His eyes were bloodshot red, and he was sweating.
“Want me to unlock the door for him, sir?” Francis asked.
“Only if there hasn’t been a recent zombie invasion that I don’t know about.”
The doors clicked and Aaron moved inside. Up close, he looked even more deranged.
“If you’re going to do midday workouts,” I said, “you don’t have to do them while wearing a suit.”
“Miss Stone found the money—well, kind of—via theory,” he rambled, “and I believe she’s right, but it creates an even bigger issue for us.”
“Be sure to tell her ‘thank you’ since she likes that phrase so much,” I said. “When will the money hit my preferred bank accounts?”
“Never, Harrison.” He was shaking. “Never.”
“This is beyond confusing,” I said. “Even for you. We either have the money or we don’t, so which one is it?”
“I was reading through everyone’s notes as usual.” He put a hand over his chest. “You know, checking to see what they were thinking—if all the numbers added up, and then I got to Andrea’s…”
“And then, it all started to make sense,” he continued. “The employees with weird titles getting paid for nothing, the lax workplace culture, the crazy benefits, the fact that this place has been stuck at number two for decades…”
He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and held it out for me.
I stared at it.
It was a doodle of a suited man who looked suspiciously like me—with a knife in his neck. The words “you’re welcome, everyone” were scribbled on the handle.
“This is groundbreaking work from Miss Stone.” I rolled my eyes. “Truly.”
“Look at her words at the bottom…”
I glanced down and read her handwriting.
Offshore accounts.
Private investor payouts?
Quick private sale…
No escrow.
Handwritten & old records = Bernie Madoff vibes
Ponzi scheme?
Sweet Seasons might be a Ponzi scheme.
“No.” I dropped the sheet like it was on fire. “She’s wrong.”
“The cafes are a front, Harrison.” His voice trembled. “That’s what the private investors see but…it’s all backed by a pyramid scheme—well, a Ponzi scheme…”
The world blurred around me, and all I saw was gray.
I don’t fall for things like this. This type of thing doesn’t happen to me.
The fuzzy record-keeping. The fake jobs. The missing payroll. All that missing money…
As much as I needed this to be wrong, it was the only thing that made fucking sense.
That old bastard scammed me…
“Where is Mr. Lewis these days?” I asked. “Where the hell does he live?”
“I would tell you, but I think you might kill him.”
“Will, not might.” I gritted my teeth. “You think he knew?”
He shot me a look.
“Of course he knew.” I rubbed my temple. “How much of this company is propped up by the scheme?”
“Half of it,” he said. “The payments to the fake investors will stop in about six months, and then…”
“It’ll hit the news and everyone will think I was at fault.” I shook my head. “So, profit-wise, we’re not within striking distance of Starbucks?”
“We’re not even close.” He shook his head. “We’re at the starting point with prettier stores and fancier cups.”
Silence.
“Don’t tell Andrea you know anything,” I said. “Don’t tell anyone. Just have them keep finding alternate answers and bring me anything that Andrea has written and worked on the moment we get back.”
“You mean, help you draft a mass layoff and restructuring plan…”
“No.” I shook my head. “I want her notes.”
“You can’t possibly still want to helm this disaster show, Harrison,” he said. “This will take a lot longer to correct and there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to fix the core issue.”
“Our goal is to destroy you-know-who, so yes.” I looked at him. “I am going to continue running this, and we’re going to figure this out and win like always.”
He looked wary, but he nodded.
I picked up Andrea’s sheet and folded it before texting her.
Push our meeting to nine tonight.
Be there on time.
Thank you.