Scapegoat

“Heads up Charles, Marshall’s on his way over.”

“Notebook too?”

“And a fancy three-piece suit to go with it. He really thinks he has you on this.”

A few voices, muffled by the static of the speakerphone, scoffed at the thought.

“Alright everyone, you know drill; mute your phones and let the games begin.” Charles readied himself, getting into character before the young associate arrived.

Marshall barged into the office, inviting himself to take a seat as an animated Charles pretended to angrily shout into the phone receiver “…if we don’t increase our bottom line this year no one’s getting a bonus!”

If Marshall read the notebook as expected, this would have surely piqued his interest. Charles shooed him away with his hand trying to appear too busy to waste his time with him. Marshall showed no intention of leaving. Instead, he kicked his feet up on the mahogany desk, knocking over a stack of papers, scattering them across the room.

“Jeremy, I’m going to have to call you back,” Charles said calmly with a purposeful hint of annoyance. “Jeremy” was a farce. A code word utilized by the partners indicating the game had begun.

Charles glared at the grinning subordinate. Marshall’s gall irked him in this situation. Charles otherwise respected the intellect and potential of the rising star. This just wasn’t the time. Charles needed Marshall to tremble. His reputation was on the line.

“Afternoon, Chuck,” Marshall said, his smile cheaper than both his blue suit and the over-applied cologne.

In his 25 years working at the firm, Charles had only ever been called “Chuck” on one other occasion. The smug, self-entitled, perpetrator of the crime sat across from him. During one of Charles’ rare appearances outside of work, celebrating the recruitment of new entry-level associates, he was uncharacteristically excited to meet Marshall, the apparent “genius” who the partners compared to a younger Charles. Charles couldn’t care less about mingling with lowly entrants, nor was he one to think anyone could stack up to his former self, but he wanted to find out firsthand. Speaking in a corner with his new colleagues, Marshall was the center of attention. Charles meandered over to the group, penetrated the circle and introduced himself to Marshall. Marshall reciprocated pleasantries as the two engaged in a deeper conversation about market trends while the rest of their colleagues listened intently. Such conversations excited Charles. He was pleased to hear such a fresh perspective, one that was unusually insightful for someone of Marshall’s experience level. As Charles left the group, an overly comfortable Marshall shook Charles’ hand, patted the man’s shoulder, and wished “Chuck,” a good night. Charles let go of Marshall’s hand, grabbed his shirt near the neckline, pushed him up against the wall and pointed his finger in Marshall’s face and yelled “Don’t you ever call me ‘Chuck.’ You hear me, Associate?”

To this day, Marshall still held a grudge.

It was nothing personal at the time. He demanded his colleagues call him Charles since he himself entered the firm. He wasn’t going to let his reputation be diminished by an Associate. If anything, the kid needed to learn his place. “Charles” made him feel distinguished. “Charles” crushed skulls, made money, and became CEO at a young age. “Chuck,” on the other hand was a middle manager; A nice guy who lived in nice guy house occupied by his nice guy pig of a wife – one whose name was something like Babe, or Porky, or god forbid Charlotte - just like his mother. He shuttered at the thought of being anything like his father, Chuck Sr. Poor sap.

“What do you want, Marshmallow? Apparently, we don’t pay you enough. Where’d you pick up the suit, Goodwill?”

Marshall performed his job like a superstar in a muddled pool of incompetent oafs. Advanced beyond his years with both intellect and charisma, the kid showed promise. He knew it too. His biggest downfall. Marshall needed to do better than ‘Chuck’ to survive a game with the grandmaster. A mere squire in a game of kings.

“Funny Chuck. No, I picked this one out during a rendezvous at your mom’s house. Apparently, she wanted to reward me for a job well done and gave me one of your hideous suits. I agree, the suit’s in horrible taste, but taste was never really your thing anyway.”

“And manners were never really your thing, Marshall.”

Charles was quite impressed. He didn’t think his plan would be easy, but he also he didn’t expect a challenge. A minuscule sense of self-doubt flooded Charles’ mind. He reassured himself to stick to the plan. The plan was fool proof. Or at least it must be, he created it. He needed to distract Marshall lest he allow him to see through the ruse.

“If you insist on making yourself at home at least use a coaster,” Marshall said referring to the two crossed, rubber soles staring back at him. “I assume you didn’t dress up just to make cheap, witless banter.”

“I’m here because I have something you may want,” Marshall said plopping a sizable black notebook on the desk, creating a thud that shook the stacks of paper that still populated the space. “You dropped this in the parking lot last week.”

“How kind of you to return it so quickly.”

“I was thinking of bringing it to you sooner. I don’t know, must have got caught up checking out the CEO’s notes on market outlook. Any way to get an upper-hand am I right?”

“So you read my notebook?”

“I did. I’d be lying to say I was surprised. Chuck, the losses are substantial! What’ll the partners say when they realize your debts? For Christs sakes to think no one’ll get a bonus this year because you can’t say no to blackjack and strip clubs.”

Charles put on his best “caught” face. He breathed out loudly and pretended to hide his feelings of fear, anger, and discomfort. He had gotten good at faking emotions over the years. He’d been in plenty of situations where false emotions forced the hand of the other party, from business confidants to even his wife. It was all part of the plan.

He knew Marshall wanted vengeance since the night at the bar. Charles couldn’t have someone like Marshall, someone as intelligent and self-righteous as he, who inadvertently wanted revenge, snooping around the office. There was plenty of evidence if someone knew where to look. He’d hired schlubs – a company of “Chuck’s” if you will – to run his operations, allowing him to freely indulge in his gambling addiction, funded by the hard work of his own employees, behind the scenes without anyone knowing. Marshall, however, was the only employee who could threaten his plans.

Charles created a way to hide his gambling in plain sight. He consistently joked with the partners that the Company’s declining health was due to his compounding gambling loses at the Vegas casinos. The partners enjoyed the joke so much, they started referring to market turbulence as ‘the slots,’ winking and nudging one another unable to realize their naivety. Charles planned to “accidentally” drop his notebook in the parking lot near Marshall’s car. Marshall in turn, with deep contempt for his boss, would read the notebook, fully capable of understanding the misconduct he uncovered. Charles would then patiently wait for Marshall to gather the confidence needed to confront him. He expected Marshall would rather want to extort and humiliate him rather than rat him out his to the partners. He wasn’t worried about the partners anyway. He convinced them it’d be fun to bet on the extortion sum. They loved idea. If they only knew.

“What do you want Marshall? For both the notebook and your silence.”

“I’d say twenty-five each would suffice.”

“$50,000? Are you out of your mind? I have losses to hide and you want to add another fifty grand to it?”

“That’s not really my problem, Chuck. $50,000 or this goes to the partners,” Marshall pointed to the notebook. “They can decide how to handle it.”

Charles reached out and snatched the notebook from the desk. Marshall didn’t budge. “I guess now I only need your silence.”

“Did you not think I’d make copies?” Marshall looked disappointed.

Somehow in his quest to concoct the perfect scheme Charles must have forgotten scanners existed. Charles felt himself slipping in the battle. Something unfamiliar to him, something that frightened him. He didn’t so much fear Marshall, rather, he feared himself. He’d become careless. Self-consciousness took hold, drowning him under a tsunami of doubt. He buried himself in the grave he dug. He knew he had the partners eating out of the palm of his hands. The only threat, he worried, was Marshall. He knew Marshall didn’t care to ruin him, but he couldn’t shake the idea of what might happen if he pushed Marshall too far. He couldn’t have that. He had to pick his opportune moment to strategically concede the fight.

“Fine fifty grand, you win.”

Charles reached into his drawer and pulled out a checkbook, slamming it to the table in a fit of frustration. Charles reached out to hand Marshall the check, gripping it hard so Marshall would feel compelled to look him in the eyes.

“Take the money and get the hell out of my office. You’re fired.”

Extortion was cause for termination. Charles almost felt bad to see him go. Almost. Marshall had a bright career ahead of him and Charles always envisioned himself mentoring someone of his caliber. But business was business and Charles needed Marshall out. This part of his plan was never discussed with the partners and he knew he had some explaining to do but he was still the boss. He determined who worked at the company, not them.

“I just made $50,000; I think I’ll be alright for a little while.” Marshall seized the check, folded it, and tucked it into his suit jacket pocket without averting eye contact.

Disregarding the common rhetoric of adieus, Marshall left the office. Charles walked over to his office door and closed it shut, allowing ample time for Marshall to leave the general vicinity before hailing the members over the phone to sing his praise of a job well done.

“$50,000? Wow, Charles, you really underestimated yourself didn’t you. Who had fifty grand?” a raspy voice asked over speakerphone.

Charles had to quiet down the clamoring group of voices to explain the next part of his scheme. “He only thinks he’s getting fifty grand. The number appears on the check as $50,000. I wrote out the words ‘five thousand.’ Poor schmuck thinks he’s rich.”

Bursts of laugher echoed through the phone. “Brilliant!” they shouted.

Yes, he was brilliant. Brilliant enough to lie to the group of “yes men” to save face and show how he did, in fact, defeat the young gun. Charles couldn’t afford to sleight Marshall. Little did they know the former rising star had bested Goliath. Marshall was due to make off with the $50,000, but at least Charles kept his reputation.

“Alright who had five grand?”

“Charles was the closest at three and a half,” another voice muttered.

Charles leaned back in his chair. He grabbed the bottle of 15-year scotch from his desk that he kept for special occasions. He may not have won today’s battle, but he was still on track with his scheme to keep his losses a secret.

“Looks like you win again Charles. $20,000, congrats.”