Chapter 8: In sunshine or in shadow...

While Lacy Danube planned for her encounter with Paul Citron, she considered her ongoing insurance scam. The best cons were careful constructs that played out over time. Months and months, in this case.

In fact, it could have taken years, but she’d gotten lucky on the timing. That happened sometimes, although she never counted on good fortune.

It was late December when the news first started trickling out of China about a mysterious disease caused by a new strain of coronavirus. That was when Lacy — Colonel Rose Patterson — made her second visit to the target executive, a man named Conrad Willoughby. The chief risk-officer for the Celebrity Hotel Corporation, headquartered in downtown Boston. The initial call had been seven months earlier.

Back then, her uniform had gotten her in the door at Celebrity. Her striking appearance and confident articulation got her into the corner office.

That first meeting with Willoughby had been just to set the table. To introduce the then almost-unknown concept of pandemic insurance. From his point of view, the 57-year old corporate veteran had seen it all. Hucksters, tricksters, thieves, false injury-claimers, hookers, blackmailers. Corporate raiders and backstabbing bosses.

Lacy knew that he took the meeting partly out of curiosity — pandemic fucking insurance? And partly out of respect for her credentials. The lieutenant colonel was co-chair of a joint Pentagon/corporate task force created to mitigate the devastating economic and social effects of a once-in-a-century event.

The purported civilian partner? A company — Frankfurt Re — that every risk-officer in the world knew. Frankfurt Re had been established in 1869 and was one of the world’s largest reinsurers. Over $49 billion in revenue the previous year, with $2.7 billion in profits. They insured insurance companies, and had made a profit during every year of their existence.

She had backgrounded Willoughby thoroughly. He hadn’t served in the military, nor had any close relatives. She was confident that he wouldn’t realize that anyone wearing an Army uniform would be forbidden from participating in commercial enterprises — like selling pandemic insurance.

However, even if she didn’t know the proposal would be read by other executives — higher-ups — she wouldn’t leave the topic to chance. She told Willoughby, “The Pentagon believes that an economic collapse would be a national security issue. So, every branch of the military is working on pandemic mitigation strategies. General Wordsworth selected me to represent the Army because my background in defense procurement gave me a business foundation. But no one from the Army, Navy, Air Force, nor Marines will see a penny of civilian money.”

“I understand.”

“It’s a public/private enterprise in the purest sense of the world. And the challenge is large enough that we’re partnering with the best, most appropriate companies around the globe.”

“Like Frankfurt Re.”

“Precisely.”

Lacy had carefully evaluated Willoughby that first time. She was good at reading people and concluded that he matched the research profile that she had built. WASP, Ivy League, old family. A confidence that came from privilege, and an unawareness of just how fortunate he had been to be born into the lucky sperm club. But still very, very smart. Which was exactly what she was counting on.

She liked it that he didn’t try any of the usual power moves. Sitting her facing a sun-filled window. Putting her in a chair that was lower than his. A chair that some operators had had the front legs sawn down by 3/4 of an inch, so the visitor would remain just slightly off balance and vaguely uncomfortable for the duration of the meeting.

Instead, the balding gentleman took off his bifocals and smiled, while gesturing to a corner sofa. He sat in a chair next to her, two equals about to have a pleasant chat.

As good as she was at reading people, she was even better at listening. She had a Ph.D. in concentration. Like everyone, she listened to the words, but also picked up on nuances and hesitations, on posing, evading, lying. And most importantly, on when someone was telling the truth.

Lacy said, “As I mentioned on the phone, Frankfurt Re and the Pentagon Threat Assessment Team put together a task force to study responses and possible alleviations to an event that might or might not occur in a one-hundred year time span.”

“Like a massive business-interruption model.”

“Exactly. I’ll leave you the White Paper summary that our data scientists, epidemiologists, programmers, actuaries, and social scientists have crafted.”

“Colonel Patterson, you mentioned that fear was a primary driver.”

“Good memory, sir. The industry calls it the Catalog of Dread. There are two kinds of pandemic-fear. First, how civilians around the world react. Our modeling shows indifference, denial, begrudging acceptance, then small-scale panic. As jobs are lost, restaurants shuttered, churches closed, travel curtailed ... as neighbors and coworkers begin to die, the anxiety increases, and terror begins to take hold.”

“And the second type of fear?”

“Corporate trepidation. Here, the process — the reaction time — is more compressed. How much risk is any one corporation willing to take? In short, would Company A bet its very survival on not anticipating the danger of a worldwide event?”

Willoughby frowned briefly.

Throughout the conversation, Lacy casually dropped in trigger-phrases. Ideas meant to work on Willoughby’s subconscious once she left.

> “Ordinarily, insurance is sold, not bought. What we’re looking at is not an ordinary event.”

> “We’re evaluating a new metric — cost-per-death-prevented.”

> “If Frankfurt Re didn’t pay out, even for a worldwide contagion, they would lose the very reason for their existence.”

> “Most civilians simply aren’t hardwired to comprehend a once-in-a-century disaster. Only leading-edge international companies will be able to anticipate it.”

Willoughby asked the question she’d been waiting for, “How is pandemic insurance different from anything else?”

“You’re the chief risk officer. You have earthquake insurance on your California hotels. Flood insurance for the port cities in Asia that are located in deltaic settings. Hurricane and tornado coverage where it’s needed.”

“And?”

“As you well know, sir, insurance companies spread the risk. If their auto insurance division sold a hailstorm policy in, say, St. Louis — and only in St. Louis — a single event could bankrupt them because they wouldn’t have premiums from unaffected locations.”

Willoughby interrupted, “Yes, yes. State Farm sells hailstorm insurance in every region of the country.”

“But a pandemic isn’t isolated like even a group of hailstorms or a major flood. By definition, the contagion is worldwide.”

“So how does Frankfurt Re survive a catastrophic event? The payouts would bankrupt them.”

Lacy mentally thanked Rhonda Gotlieb and smiled, “It’s in the White Paper, but I’ll give you a couple of examples. Hedge funds are always looking for a way to diversify their portfolios.”

“So they would actually buy some of the risk from Frankfurt Re?”

“They would, they have, they will continue to do so. Another example — and it’s a bit macabre — is pension funds. It’s a hard truth, but the worse the disaster, the sooner people die, the less the funds pay out to pensioners. That’s especially true with a contagion since the older population is most at risk because of their underlying health conditions.”

Willoughby looked pensive at that.

“Here’s another example of a leading-edge organization. When the SARS scare hit sixteen years ago, Wimbledon insisted on adding a pandemic insurance clause to their already extensive coverage. They’re now prepared for the next ... pestilence, plague, blight.”

Willoughby looked even more pensive.

Lacy thanked him for his time, straightened her tailored pencil skirt and left without trying to sell him a thing. She never did, not on the first couple of approaches. Often, not on the third, and fourth meetings either.

But once the contagion reached the Pacific Northwest, she did call him just to remind him of their meetings. And to reintroduce the subject of pandemic insurance. She rang off with a take-it-or-leave-it offer with a firm expiration date. Conrad Willoughby told Lacy Danube that he had his team looking into it. Seriously looking into it.

After that, after Covid-19 deaths started spiraling up, Willoughby called her two separate times. Increasing urgency in his tone.

While that scam continued to percolate, Lacy turned her attention to Paul Citron.

Eulalie had a busy Sunday morning shift at Mary’s. The burgers and fries were flying out of the kitchen. Both barmaids were frantically mixing pitcher after pitcher of spicy Bloody Marys. The three waitresses were racing around.

Jimmy’s band was cranking, and the noise level ratcheted up as the day wore on. Three guys patted her butt; she was used to it, and just ignored them.

She took a break when the band did, and split a cheeseburger with Jimmy. He grinned, “How about that hummer, sexy girl?”

She winked, “I would, if your wife was here.”

He barked out a laugh and held out his hand, “Deal.” Shook his head, “Kinky, I like that.”

Jimmy licked some catsup off his upper lip and said, “Why you want her here, Caroline? Just curious.”

Eulalie shrugged, “Remember when I gave Étienne to you and the band for your one-year anniversary.”

Jimmy laughed, “Remember? Child, that was the best pussy ever! Yes ma’am.”

“Well, Caroline didn’t take kindly to it.”

Jimmy patted his cowlick and looked a little sheepish, “I may have bragged on Étienne a little too much.”

That caught Eulalie’s interest, “How so, Jimmy?”

He looked down at the table and spoke softly, “I never had pussy that enjoyed it that much. He stayed hard the whole time, him.”

“Can he cum?”

Jimmy snorted, “Only about a dozen times, him.”

Eulalie thought: Rémy. Hmm.

After the break, Jimmy motioned Eulalie to join him on the bandstand. She looked around — the crowd had mostly finished eating. And the other two girls could keep up with the drink orders.

She stood there, smiling out at the dancers and the other regulars. She twirled the blue drawstring that held up her pink booty shorts and drew several whistles and whoops of approval.

The band started a mournful version of Elvis Fontenot’s You Used to Call Me and Eulalie lowered her voice into a husky contralto, “You used to call me Mommy, oh Mommy, sweet Mommy...”

As the men, and a few women, stared up at her, Eulalie could feel her nipples hardening. She undid the drawstring, teasing the audience, and turned her back, showing off some bare cheeks. Then she turned back to face them and slowly, tantalizingly, tugged down her booty shorts. She stopped just short of her pussy, and the roar intensified.

Jimmy winked at her, and she tossed him the mic, leaving them wanting more.

As she started serving drinks again, her mind meandered back to Étienne. Étienne and Rémy. Eulalie was aware of the hands that caressed her butt lightly as she made her rounds. But she was focused on that little Cajun boy, that little sexpot. And Uncle Rémy.

Well, she’d have to ask Marie before she offered the chief of police any new pussy. Marie would probably be amused; might even want to watch.

Eulalie thought: Hell, I wouldn’t mind watching myself.

Logan and Ethan both had a sense of impending ... something. A faint background thrum. They knew Citron wasn’t sitting idly by; that he had almost certainly sent a killer after the senator.

Neither man talked about it; awareness of the risk was already baked into their daily patterns. And certainly neither one mentioned anything to Madison.

When the John Lee Hooker Middle School let out on a steamy Monday afternoon, Eulalie was momentarily surprised to see Raymond Fontenot waiting beside her Vespa in the teachers’ parking lot. Then she remembered the assignment she’d given the little cutie and smiled to herself.

Sausalito High didn’t let out for another 45 minutes, so he must have ditched last period. Good.

He stood a little straighter and said, “Ms. Eulalie.”

She kept a straight face and said, “Report.”

“Yes ma’am. He took out a little spiral notebook and said, “I came three times, Richie twice. Then we had to go in for supper.”

Eulalie crossed her arms, “And?”

He turned a page, “Richie beat me. Four and half feet the first time. But I did almost four.”

“How much is almost?”

He licked his lips nervously, “Three feet, ten and one-quarter inches.”

Eulalie considered how far to push this puppy with the large, wet, brown eyes. Such a sweetie.

His face burning, Raymond said, “Ma’am? Miss Eulalie?”

“Yes?”

He glanced around to be sure no one could hear, “Is this like a ... would you say we’re on a ... on a date?”

She looked at him speculatively, “Would you like it to be a date?”

“Oh god! Oh my! Yes!” He looked down, “I mean, if it’s okay with you. Ma’am.”

“Okay. You can tell your little outlaw friends that you had a date with Eulalie Guidry. Now do you want to see me again? Next Monday?”

“Yes ma’am, more than anything! You’re...” His voice trailed off; Raymond was unable to articulate the thought.

She patted his little notebook, “Good. Show this to Gigi. Tell her that I told you to.”

The boy gasped out loud, looked like he would faint. “Oh no! I couldn’t. She’s a mom, my mom, she wouldn’t understand. Please, Ms. Eulalie.”

Eulalie spoke softly, “Ray-Ray.”

“Yes. Ma’am?”

She lowered her voice even lower, to a husky whisper, “I expect you to do as you’re told. Exactly as you’re told.”

He looked like he wanted to cry. Started to say something once, then again. Didn’t. Just nodded miserably.

“Remember to tell Gigi that I told you to have that talk. And make sure that it’s just the two of you, no dad, no brothers.”

He nodded again, still uncertain, very much torn.

Eulalie cupped her slender hand between his thighs and gave him two friendly squeezes, “See you in a week, Ray-Ray. It’s a date.”

As she headed down toward the City Docks, toward her Jon boat, Eulalie felt a mild curiosity about where she’d take this little flirtation. She pictured the red-faced boy stammering away to Gigi and laughed. Gigi would try to keep a straight face, but would find the conversation hilarious.

When Rémy picked her up in New Orleans, Marie invited him to spend the night. On the drive back to Sausalito, he said, “So, how did it go?”

“I like our client. Ethan Dalton is smarter than the other ones. But the situation is a little more fluid than I realized.”

“How so?”

“I need to think about it, Rémy. Nothing’s going to happen for at least a week. But there’s a chance that more money may be coming our way.”

“More than $125,000?”

“Possibly. Maybe another fifty thousand or so. But don’t say anything to the Dobermans. It’s not a done deal yet.”

Madison treasured her late-night talks with Logan. Shower, make love, cuddle.

“You know Popsicle looks sort of formidable to the outside world. Tall, dignified. Well, sort of dignified.”

“But... ?”

“He’s just a regular guy. A regular dad. Gets grumpy sometimes. Rarely tries a new restaurant because he knows he’ll get a meal he really likes in his old favorites. Reads his beloved mystery novels and courtroom dramas like they were international position papers or something.”

“Nothing wrong with being a regular guy.”

She reached under the sheet, “Oh yeah?”

So far as Lacy Danube could determine, Chase Windsor had lied to her only one time. Which was remarkable considering that the 62-year old confidence man had spent most of his life dissembling, misleading, obfuscating, exaggerating, and, more often than not, denying the truth.

The lie? One of kindness, for the old gent had indeed grown fond of Lacy over the years.

When she was 18, she asked — more out of a mild curiosity than a burning desire to understand her own childhood — “How much did you pay Consuela for me?”

“We negotiated for almost a week. And agreed to $70,000 in cash and another ten in uncut diamonds.”

Lacy nodded as if she believed the whopper. Her mother, strung out on a variety of drugs, would have been incapable of bargaining for a day, let alone a week. And, $5,000 would have seemed like a fortune to her. Had she ever gotten her hands on a diamond, even a fake one, she would have immediately tried to trade it for crack.