PIPER'S, Inc.. Joaquin De Torres
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stepchildren are going to be very happy.”
“Yeah, when I go, they’re suddenly millionaires!” he chuckled, trying hard not to replay the scenes leading up to him signing the will. “Yes, indeed. They will be paid.”
“They will be paid tomorrow.” Angel's statement hung in the air for a confusing moment for Becks.
“What?” He tried to recall if one of the clauses mentioned a pre-death settlement or some kind of signing bonus. “Are they going to get some money now? Like a small percentage, then the rest at my death? Honey, I didn’t read all the clauses, naturally.” He laughed and thought she would share the joke, but she didn’t even smirk.
“They will be paid in full tomorrow,” she repeated hauntingly.
“But how? I mean-” With a swift movement of her right arm the combat knife gleamed horridly in his eyes again.
“You killed your wife who gave you everything you wanted. You took her money; you took her dignity by beating her; and you took her life. Do you know why she was shooting Botox, Mr. Becks? She wanted to be more attractive for you.” Becks began to whimper again, his arms wrapped around himself as he quaked. “She was a mother with three children who loved them dearly.”
“No! Please!”
“You have to answer for Karen, Mr. Becks. And for that, you must pay a higher price.”
In a blur, Angel twirled the knife to the appropriate grip and swept it horizontally, lopping off the penis two inches from the base. Becks was so paralyzed by what he had just seen, that the pain had not yet registered. His eyes bulging, and his mouth held open in a wide sputtering maw, he choked on air as a fountain of blood gurgled out of his penal stump. As he watched in horror, Snyder stood up again, twirled the knife with her fingers into the stabbing grip and arced it down like a sledge hammer through his chest.
The last thing he heard was her soft whisper: “Sooner or later, Mr. Becks, everyone must pay the Piper.” Becks eyes stared lifelessly as Cherry Snyder raised herself up. She reached into her bag and pulled out her smart phone. She tapped the keypad. It rang only once.
“Hello, Temujin? This is Angel. The Piper’s been paid.”
Prologue 2
Trust National Bank, Branch 47
30th floor
Rochester, New York
Twenty-five-year-old Croatian fashion designer Diana Noel, couldn’t believe what the loan officer had just said to her.
“Excuse me?” She kept a tentative smile, but her eyes flashed with confusion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite get that.” Sheldon Rosenbaum, bank president, executive loan officer, securities officer, and senior board member of New York’s Small and Medium Entrepreneur Administration, sat back in his chair behind his massive mahogany desk.
Diana sat on the other side of his desk. He regarded the attractive young woman with a confident smirk, tilting his head back and pursing his lips. His thoughts, salacious and insidious, were working from the moment she stepped through the door. He repeated what he had said seconds before.
“Take off your clothes.” Diana swallowed nervously, her eyes looking at the documents she presented to him just to avoid his lustful stare. She’d never heard such a statement in the short period she had been in business in the fashion industry. This could never happen in Croatia where she managed six NOEL stores in the beautiful capital city of Zagreb. Her being so far away from her country was no accident. She had a plan for coming to New York.
Croatian labor costs were rising, and the economy was still stagnant despite the country’s European Union status. With 4.5 million people, and over 20 percent unemployment, Croatia was too small for Diana’s dreams. NOEL was a successful business, specializing in top quality women's fashions, lingerie, and shoes. But because of the quality of her products, the prices were a bit steep. Not Dolce and Gabbana steep, but perhaps a little too steep for the average Croatian citizen.
Special orders by European celebrities and the elite were what kept her business above water. However, it wasn’t the elite she wanted to market to, but the mainstream community. Other chains importing cheap materials and using Third World sweatshops to make their products like H&M, Mango, La Senza, and The United Colors of Bennington threatened to close her business down. She couldn’t compete with the crap imported from China, Bangladesh, Malaysia, India, Pakistan, and Turkey. And if that wasn’t enough, Zagreb itself was hurting her. The rental buildings, delivery costs, utilities, imported materials, advertising, her employees, and taxes were sucking down her profits. She was at the crossroads, drowning in a mud hole of a bad economy and escalating production costs.
Her personal life was a disaster. Designing the clothes herself, shopping for the materials, and most of the time sewing them together, rendered her social life non-existent. Stress was constant; sleep was sacrificed, and chasing the dollar, or as they say in Croatia, chasing the kuna, was a closed loop. In fact, the only activity that she did, and remained committed to, was her once-per-week English classes.
English was essential for living in the Euro zone, but mandatory in the fashion world. Those hours of conversation and vocabulary lessons were her periods of relaxation. She was able to socialize freely with her classmates, be a real person. But it was also an opportunity to prepare for the media and her plans to expand beyond the Adriatic. Despite the strain on her life, her clothes were, in fact, making a name for themselves among those in that media world.
She was invited to show her collections in Croatian and EU fashion shows, and appeared on talk shows, and magazines promoting the business dreams of Croatia. This helped the NOEL brand with prestige and free advertising, but did little to pay all the bills. She was told by many in the industry, and even in her family, that if she wanted to survive she’d have to think big and out of the box. And whenever she heard that, it meant one thing: She had to go to America.
“So, I will repeat, Miss Noel. . .take off your clothes.”
She blinked out of her daydream, and took a deep breath. The demand, here in a bank, made no sense! She could understand it if she were applying for a stripper’s position, or a modeling job, but she was there to apply for a business loan! She looked up at the man timidly. Seeing her complete confusion, he got up from his desk and walked over to a matching mahogany wall cabinet and bookshelf that extended the entire width of the wall. Her eyes followed him cautiously, then dragged over to where a long, beautiful leather couch sat. Her eyes quickly darted back to him as he opened the cabinet doors. Within were several bottles of expensive spirits, wine and crystal glasses. He took two goblets and a large, ornate bottle of what looked like brandy, and returned to the front of his desk where she sat. The huge brandy bottle was also crystal, and filled with almost 1.5 liters of dark, orange liquid.
Diana’s hands were trembling as the urge to run out the door began to grow. She pulled her eyes away from him and looked ahead, beyond his chair and through the massive, wall-to-wall bay view windows that gave a breathtaking panorama of the city. He poured a brandy for her, and before he could fill his own glass, she grabbed the goblet and drained hers dry. She put the empty goblet on his desk to his amazement. He smiled with satisfaction as he poured her another. This might be easier than he thought.
As he sipped his brandy, he reached out and let his hand glide through a length of her long, honey brown hair. Her body stiffened when his fingertips touched her neck, and he retracted his hand. Her stare remained still through the window panes, trying to find some sort of strength to remain calm. But Diana was new to New York; her first time in the States with no friends or family. She was alone. A young woman with a dream, but no backup plan, and no sponsor to help navigate her through this new world she had chosen to explore. This was something that Rosenbaum made sure to remind her of.
“This is not Croatia, honey,” he broke the silence. “And this is no ordinary bank.” He moved back to his chair and sat down, pulling towards himself the folder of documents she had presented earlier. “Your paperwork is good, but your