"The Auditor" by Joe Giordano
Vice President of International, Harry Martello’s yellow-tinged predator eyes skewered me from behind an oak desk the size of a tennis court. "Damian, I’m assigning you to the Middle East,” he said smiling evilly. “You’ll manage the region from Sudan to Iran, working out of Nicosia."
When I’d raised a conflicting opinion in a meeting, Martello’s face had darkened, and this assignment was his retribution. I’d engaged in hubris, the Greeks termed it, and the gods’ response was always fuck-awful. Although my gut boiled, stress sweat on subordinates gave Martello a hard-on, so I forced a cheerful face. "Thanks for the opportunity."
***
A bank collapse plunged Cyprus into the worst crisis since the Turks invaded in 1974. Construction halted in Nicosia, businesses closed, and unemployed people wandered the streets like dazed asylum patients.
After flying into Larnaca International Airport, I rented a pension in Nicosia and the next evening dined in a small taverna, the Plaka. The sky was a blanket of stars, and the air was cool with a scent of pine. A chunky local with a gray-speckled beard and a rainbow smile approached my table, introducing himself as Tassos Kappakiotis. We exported switchers to telecommunication companies that were often controlled by governments. Tassos knew my responsibilities and offered to help. I saw no harm in listening, and companionship was welcome, so we shared a meze and toasted with cloudy glasses of ouzo.
Tassos was twenty when the Turks forced his family off their estate in the north. "They drove my father’s Jaguar into the swimming pool,” he said shaking his head. "One day I’ll return and claim what’s mine." When the conversation turned to business, he said, "The Middle East can be dangerous, especially for Americans. I have contacts throughout the region. Permit me to be your guide."
"Thanks, but I can get around on my own,” I responded. “I grew up in a Brooklyn neighborhood that would make most Arabs blanch."
Tassos flashed his white teeth. "An alliance would be profitable, for both of us,” he said leaning close. "My friends are most generous with their business partners."
One might think that Tassos’s allusion to bribes would trigger in me some sort of moral dilemma. A month earlier I would’ve blown him off, but Martello had wanted to screw me and financial renumeration would be a sort of revenge. "What do you propose?"
"A sixty-forty split on all payments."
I sipped my ouzo. "Make it seventy-thirty."
We shook hands. I savored an opportunity to pepper Martello’s ass like a sweet chunk of baklava.
***
Through Tassos, I soon had exclusive representatives in every Middle East country, and my numbered Swiss bank account received regular deposits. I toured the region feted by local associates. Martello was oceans away and life was 1001 Arabian nights.
I was in Cairo, attending the Sound and Light Show at the Pyramids, when I received a call from Martello’s assistant Margaret Bugner, who spoke ex cathedra for her boss. Her voice had a nasal quality. "Mr. Martello assigned an auditor, Roland Thorneside, to review your business area. He’ll be in Nicosia Monday. Give him full access and cooperation."
My stomach soured.
***
Thorneside was a thin redhead with alabaster skin. His voice’s tonal quality was a cross between a Howler Monkey and the bray of a Jackass. "I’ve audited operations all over the world,” he declared, “and have a nose for corruption."
I contemplated strangling him.
Thorneside raised a bony finger. "If something’s amiss, I’ll find it."
I crossed my arms.
Thorneside worked twenty hours a day, ferreting through every invoice, fax, and Post-it Note. He phoned clients. He combed through my travel records and dinged me for lack of receipts. He interrogated me on my selection of agents. Before Thorneside interviewed Tassos, I downed a couple of Extra Strength Rolaids, but Tassos, slippery as a jellyfish, answered Thornside's questions with a grandfatherly smile, revealing nothing.
Even so, Thornside's proctological exam exhausted me. I was pleased to observe that his efforts also took a toll on him. Weight melted off him like a snowman in springtime, and his eyes sagged like a bloodhound's.
I telephoned a buddy back in the States for advice, Harry Levine.
"Martello dispatched an auditor to assassinate me,” I said. “Roland Thorneside."
Harry chuckled. "Martello hates Thorneside. He nicknamed him Savonarola because he’s incorruptible and exiled him to your Circle of Hell. Martello knew he’d be a pain in your tukhus, but that was honey on his yogurt."
I considered telling Thorneside that Martello wouldn’t reward him for a job well done so he should just ease up on me, but I rejected the idea. Thorneside was shoved aside as I’d been. Nonetheless, he took up the task to audit my activities with enthusiasm. The job energized him. He worked for principle and himself, not for recognition.
Two days later, Thorneside slumped over at his desk. Tassos helped, and we got him to a hospital.
In blue scrubs, Doctor Papaellinas examined Thorneside, then approached me. "He’s shot through with cancer. It’s a matter of days."
"Can you keep him here?"
"This isn't a hospice. In Cyprus, family members die at home."
Thorneside’s sternum and ribs were visible when he slipped off the hospital gown. He sat on the bed to catch his breath. I helped him dress, and he thanked me. I wheelchaired him to my car, and when he slumped into the passenger seat, he dozed off immediately. He was too weak to stay alone in his apartment, so I took him to my pension. I slept on the couch. For days, he was in and out of consciousness and a couple of times I had to clean him when he soiled the bed.
In a lucid moment he grabbed my arm. "Just because you’re helping me, don’t think that I’ll cut you any slack."
"I get it," I said and really did.
Around four a.m. one morning, he stirred, and I went to him. His eyes were childlike. "When will my mother arrive?"
I gulped. I hadn’t thought to call anyone. As I anguished at this failure, he breathed his last.
Tassos helped with the arrangements to send Thorneside’s body home. We watched from the Departures area until the plane left.
I sighed. "I didn’t think of Thorneside as having a mother."
"Did it matter? He didn’t have much time."
"I should’ve told him he was right. I’m a crook."
Tassos’s eyebrows rose. "Why would you do that?"
"He would have rallied.” I faced Tassos. “I owed him that."
Joe Giordano was born in Brooklyn. He and his wife Jane now live in Texas.
Joe’s stories have appeared in more than one hundred magazines including The Saturday Evening Post, and Shenandoah. His novels, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story (2015), and Appointment with ISIL, an Anthony Provati Thriller (2017) were published by Harvard Square Editions. Rogue Phoenix Press published Drone Strike (2019) and his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember (2020).
Joe was among one hundred Italian American authors honored by Barnes & Noble to march in Manhattan’s 2017 Columbus Day Parade. Read the first chapter of Joe's novels and sign up for his blog at http://joe-giordano.com/
