Scam at Five Mile Road

CHAPTER ONE

When can you join me? Have major problems in Plymouth factory. 

The text message on Jack’s phone was from Stella West, owner of Link Industries, headquartered in San Francisco. Almost ten years older, she was also a part-time lover. Reference to the Plymouth factory could only be the one in Michigan. The original plan was for him to be there by now. He’d committed to help her. 

That was a month ago. It was then Jack got a call from a client to come to Singapore. He had to check on the systems he’d installed two years ago. Stella said she understood and, at the time, was OK with the delay. She’d deemed the assignment in Plymouth necessary but not urgent. 

The Singapore client, the business owner, was concerned the support team left behind was not doing the job correctly. It was affecting the company. The client wanted Jack there for two months. It had taken a month. A harsh month. It had been like sorting through a barrel of apples, looking for the bad ones. The client was happy. He paid Jack for the two months as agreed.

Jack replied to Stella’s text.

Shall I phone you?

No. I’m on a conference call. Can only text for now.

In his mind’s eye, Jack could see Stella multitasking in her boardroom.

When do you want me there?

The ferry boat on the Singapore River was chugging towards him from upstream. It was seven pm. He’d been looking at the bistro bar’s signage. It said, ‘BoomArang’ not ‘Boomerang’. They’d replaced the ‘e’ in the boomerang sign with a real boomerang making something resembling an ‘A’. It was one of his favorite spots in Singapore to hang out and relax. The food was good, big-screen TVs on every wall and pillar, showing a plethora of sports. The Aussie theme was everywhere, but the accents of the patrons were from all over the world. 

In 24 hrs.

He’d picked up his phone just as his Johnny Black whiskey arrived. Separate ice and water with an extra glass. He pulled a half-finished bottle of water from his kit bag, which was beside him on the ground with his Muay Thai shorts, singlet, ankle supports, shin guards, headgear, and boxing mitts inside, fresh from training. Well, more like, recently from, rather than sweet-smelling. Too easy to get dehydrated when less than one hundred miles from the equator. He drank all the water. 

He picked up his glass, leaned back in the chair, and took the first sip of the whiskey. Always the best one. It was winter, February, a pleasant time of the year in Singapore. Temperatures hovering around sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Michigan would be freezing at about zero or less.

You are making this sound urgent?

It is.

He returned the smile of a lady runner who’d stopped to stretch her hamstrings on the metal railing at the edge of the river. The white short shorts and the pink halter top enhanced the view. Would it be polite to offer her a glass of water? She was about his age, thirty, and pretty, with her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. The thinness of a regular runner highlighted her cheekbones.

Systems stuff?

Yes, you did say you would examine their systems.

I did, and I will.

A male cyclist in baby-blue spandex skidded his bike to a halt next to the lady runner and spoke to her. Her face showed surprise, like a rabbit that had just spotted the coyote. 

Need you there asap. Situation worsened since we last spoke.

The lady runner took her leg off the railing and moved to step around the cyclist. 

What happened?

The cyclist moved his bike in front and towards her. She took a step back. Her face showed anger. She was talking, her fists clenched at her sides, shoulders hunched.

System at 1 factory fallen apart, also 2 industrial accidents and 1 theft which went wrong.

Jack wondered if this was a domestic tiff between the lady runner and the cyclist he was watching, or she didn’t like being hit on by cyclists. 

Anyone hurt?

The cyclist took off his helmet. Jack wondered if this was to show off his long shoulder-length black hair, tied back with a bandana. The bike he put on its stand. The helmet on the handlebars.

Three deaths.

Jack moved from lounging to sitting up straight and texted. 

Oh. Wasn’t expecting that. Are these related?

Don’t know. That’s why I need you back here.

I’ll check flights.

The lady runner tried to push past the cyclist. He shoved her backward. Both his hands banging into her shoulders. She stumbled back, almost falling, and regained her balance, her hands raised and open to ward off any further attacks. The cyclist followed up on her. Jack put his phone in his pocket and walked over to the cyclist. He had twenty pounds more weight than Jack’s 180 pounds. Most of that in the gut. It looked like he was hiding half a basketball under the spandex and probably forty pounds heavier than the lady runner. Jack needed to get back to texting Stella. He did not have time for a conversation with a cyclist. 

Jack stood between the runner, and the cyclist, who Jack realized was two inches taller than his six-foot. He indicated for the runner to walk past and around. The cyclist smelled like a hamster cage. Walkers were slowing down to become onlookers. The cyclist swore at Jack. The lady runner did not go past. She stayed behind Jack. The cyclist swore again as he threw a straight right, followed by a left round-house kick. Jack deflected the punch, stepped back and caught the incoming leg at waist height, holding the ankle in his elbow. His other hand grabbed the fancy cycling shoe and twisted and pushed the cyclist’s leg, who was hopping on one foot, towards the railing. Jack turned the leg and foot up and over the barrier. The cyclist’s body followed. 

The cyclist grabbed the railing with one hand, looking up at Jack. Jack grabbed the helmet from the handlebars and smashed them down onto the fingers of the cyclist, who yelped and let go. He made a six-foot-high splash when he hit the water, coming up spluttering. Jack wondered if the Singapore River water would be suitable for one’s intestinal tract. The ferry stopped. Onlookers were at the rail. The lady runner had not run away but stood close enough so he could smell her perfume. It was familiar. Expensive, he recalled. He pulled out his phone and looked at the text. 

Booking already done. Ticket sent to you. Check your phone.

He looked at his phone and opened his email. There it was. An eighteen-hour, non-stop flight. With Singapore sixteen hours ahead of San Francisco, jetlag would be a monster. 

I see it.

Only economy seats left. Sorry. You can just make it.

Jack calculated the time to get back to the hotel, pack up, and get to Changi Airport. It would be tight.

You’re sure of yourself.

I’m sure of you.

Jack was smiling as he texted.

Will pack and go to airport.

Thanks.

Where do we meet? 

Boardroom, new Link Industries offices.

Jack knew these were in the Financial District. Not too far from Stella’s home in Vallejo Street, Pacific Heights. He recalled one of their interludes, pointing out she was the owner of a growing industrial enterprise. Hence, there was now a need to upgrade the corporate identity of the original offices in the back of one factory.

See you there.

Thanks.

The whole time he had been eavesdropping on two birds in the tree above him. Maybe Orioles. But the call was hard to pin down. He looked up. In the lights from the sidewalk and the bistro, he caught a glimpse. The bird turned its head, bright yellow chest, black mark starting at the eyes and going back and around the head. Black-Naped Oriole. It could make many different calls. In amongst these was its one own call. Like listening to people talk.

The lady runner was standing next to him, thanking him and inviting him to dinner. He could hear she was from England. It was like listening to the Queen of England speaking. This was what the English people called a posh accent. He explained he had to catch a plane. Jack smiled at the lady runner and shrugged his shoulders. Tired from the training session, he returned to his seat, threw his scotch down his throat, picked up his gym bag, and headed to the hotel in the street behind the BoomArang. 

Although good to get back home, he had other plans in mind before going to Plymouth. That one thousand acres of wilderness he wanted to find. But when you sign up for a particular lifestyle, then you must take whatever comes your way.