Business Ethics

            by David Yu

 

They found Jim in the library, which was a bit ironic because the library was the only place Jim ever felt alive. He was pronounced dead at around two in the morning; I grabbed some things and was out the door five minutes later. Jim was seated at a small table behind the business section. The main branch closed at midnight, and when the janitor made his rounds, he found Jim’s head down over some book covered in blood. The police were called to the scene. Tape was rolled out, pictures were taken, and surfaces were dusted. When they checked his pockets for an ID, all they found was Jim’s library card.

v         v         v

 

            Jim and I had been in business together for eleven years. We were good partners with a good business. When we first met, we were young, and life was fun. Work wasn’t just work, especially since we had our own company; it was an act of creation. Client by client, we built a reputation together. In our line of work, reputation is everything, because trust is everything. Clients trust us; we trust each other. Without it, money would not be made, and clients would not be helped. That’s why it has always only been the two of us, not just in business, but in life altogether. It’s hard to find people you can really trust. I trusted Jim and only Jim, so shortly after we became partners, we moved in together.

With our solid reputation, business boomed. Clients came in regularly with their problems, seeking professional help. That’s what we were: professionals with professional skills¾natural, professional skills, if that makes sense. Our talents were ours for two reasons: nature and experience. Naturally, we were born with the right stuff. Jim was a people-person, outgoing and patient. I was a problem-solver, perceptive and meticulous. Clients told clients, and after the first year, we had more experience than anyone else in the city.

            Last year, it was our tenth year anniversary as partners. We celebrated with two bottles of champagne and a night of gambling at the casinos. Altogether, we probably threw away ten thousand dollars that night. Most would say that’s a lot of money to waste in one night, but I figured ten thousand was nothing compared to the millions we made in the last decade, which was what we were celebrating. And plus, it made us happy…. Well, it made me happy. After our last game at the craps table, we went up to our rooms, ready to end our drunken night of gambling. As I reached inside my pocket to find my room key, Jim turned to me with a lazy expression and said, “What the fuck have we done?”

            I paid no attention to Jim’s bullshit question and passed out.

            The next couple weeks after that casino night were a bit weird. There was a shift in Jim’s behavior. He became much more quiet and introverted, not the social Jim I knew. I often found him in our living room just staring off into space, with an emotionless expression. His face didn’t show any sadness, but when I looked at him, it made me sad, so I ignored it. Then one night, I had just gotten off the phone with a client, when Jim walked through the front door with some girl who looked barely legal. Jim brought girls home all the time. We both brought girls home all the time, so I just looked up and gave him a nod of approval. The next night, it was the same thing but with a different girl. This went on for about three weeks. It was like some sick fuck-pageant. These girls walked through the door one by one, strutted their stuff in Jim’s room, and walked back out. I didn’t care. Jim still did his job when he had to, and, like I said, Jim was a social guy.

            After three weeks of screwing random girls and probably creating some new strand of herpes, Jim turned to drugs. From coke to heroine to meth, the whole sha-bang. He offered me some; I took some, but I couldn’t get into it the same way he did. I watched him; once a day, twice a day, he would go at it. Business began to slow. It wasn’t the clients that stopped coming; it was Jim. We had always rejected some clients for one reason or another: not enough money, not enough time, or we just didn’t like the client. Both of us had to agree to accept a client. We trusted each other’s judgment, and few clients were ever turned down. But lately, Jim agreed to a very select number of jobs, nothing detrimental to the business (especially since we still did the jobs we accepted perfectly), but it was a bit strange, and it bothered me. After four weeks of letting him go off on his drug-binge, I told Jim to stop shooting himself up with all that shit. He did. I didn’t expect it to be so easy, but he quit. The only way I can explain it is that he did it out of boredom. He was bored of drugs. Imagine them teaching that at rehab¾boredom.

            So, Jim went sober, but business didn’t pick back up. He still rejected clients for no reason I could see. I was worried, not so much for the business, but for my friend, Jim. I bought him a book on business mechanics, thinking it may motivate him a little. He seemed to enjoy it and would read it nonstop for hours and finished the three-hundred-page book in a week. After the book, Jim became much more reasonable, and business picked back up. When we weren’t working, Jim was out of the house. I rarely ever saw him, but he seemed much happier, much more like the Jim I knew, outgoing and patient. However, I still wanted to know where he went everyday. He told me he was at the library. The library...holy shit, who would have guessed? I always knew Jim was a smart guy. He did well in school, got good grades, but I never expected him to spend his free time like a dork in the library. But I trusted Jim would figure it out. Then one day, I found a library card on top the coffee table.

            “You got a library card?” I asked holding up the card.

            “Yeah, this way I can check out books and bring them home. That’s what they’re for.”

            “And you gave them our address and our account information?”

            “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

            “Nothing, as long as you’re careful.” I felt like a mom bitching at their kid, so I stopped the lecture. I looked at the card again; on the back it read: “Books are the bricks of great minds.”

           

Two weeks ago, a client contacted us¾a woman. I picked up the phone and scheduled an appointment at the office for the next day. Jim didn’t get home from the library until very late, so I left a note.

            “What seems to be the problem, Mrs. Carter?” That was Jim’s line at every one of our meetings.

            “My husband, he’s been cheating on me.” Mrs. Carter was in her mid-thirties. She wore glasses and carried a large handbag. She had frizzy hair, wore no makeup, and sported no jewelry except for a wedding ring. Mrs. Carter didn’t seem to be trying to impress anyone; she seemed content with her appearance, which impressed me.

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said calmly. “How do you feel?”

            “I hate him. I wish he were dead,” she said, more angry than sad. Jim and I nodded. This was all we really needed to know. We had seen hundreds of such cases, and it all went back to trust. The ones who came to see us trusted their spouse to love them and be faithful, so when they discovered the harsh truth, they became emotional and did rash things. These people needed professional help, our help, and we were ready and willing to give it to them.

            The rest of the meeting proceeded like any other meeting with a first-time client; we took their personal information, collected the first payment, and presented a timeline, so Mrs. Carter would know exactly what to expect from us when.

            The next meeting was with Mr. Carter, which wouldn’t be at our office, but rather at the Carter-household. The spouses never enjoy our meetings, because they have to face the facts and own up to their actions. A week after our first meeting with Mrs. Carter, we made the trip to a suburban neighborhood half an hour south of the city. By the time we reached the Carter’s, the sun had set, and the only light came from solitary street lamps. The houses were removed from the road by extended driveways attached to three-car garages, making each house faint with the exception of a few lit windows. We had helped some clients in this neighborhood before, and it was surprising how nothing had changed.

            Mrs. Carter knew we would be coming, so she had gone out to the movies with some girlfriends (our recommendation) so that we could meet with Mr. Carter in private. We made our way up the Carter’s long driveway and knocked on the front door. After a couple seconds, the door unlocked with a click and swung open to reveal a man.

            “Mr. Carter?” Jim asked.

            “Yes, I’m Mr. Carter. Can I help you?” Mr. Carter was much better looking than his wife. He was tall, clean shaven, and broad-shouldered. 

            “Yes, my name is Jim, and this is Tom. We’re domestic consultants hired by your wife. May we come in?”

            “I’m sorry, my wife didn’t tell me anything about domestic consultants, and she’s out right now, so you’ll have to come back later.” I looked inside; the TV was on. I looked around; it was dark. I looked at Jim; he gave me a nod. Like I said, I’m a perceptive guy.

“Okay, Mr. Carter. Sorry to bother you,” I said as I reached into my pocket and handed him a business card. “Please, call us.” As Mr. Carter held up our business card to read, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my pistol, and shot Mr. Carter in his clean-shaven face. The shot was quick and quiet. We used silenced pistols that only gave out a whisper when fired. We were professionals.

The next meeting with Mrs. Carter happened three weeks later, at our office. Jim didn’t feel like coming, which was fine and normal for a follow up meeting.

“Thank you guys so much.” Mrs. Carter seemed much perkier and happy. If nothing else, she looked much better with makeup, jewelry, a Gucci purse, and straightened hair¾life insurance money, I imagine.

“All in a day’s work, Ma’am. Do you have the second payment ready?” All our clients made two equal payments, half before the job was done, half after.

Mrs. Carter reached inside her Gucci purse and pulled out an envelope.

“Is this the five thousand we agreed to?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said with a nod. I took the money out of the envelope and counted all fifty bills. Clients rarely tried to cheat us, but it always occurred to me to count the money.

“May I borrow your pen?” I asked. I had seen one when she opened her purse. She handed me the pen, and I wrote the number 5,000.00 on the outside of the envelope.

“Okay, Mrs. Carter. If you’re happy, that concludes our business.”

“I’m more than happy. Tell Jim, thank you, and I have your number, so if I need anything else, I’ll call you.” Mrs. Carter stood up and put her purse around her arm. “Oh, can I have my pen back?”

I reached down and picked up the pen from the desk. As I handed it to her, I saw the words: Books are the bricks of great minds.

“That’s an interesting quote,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, looking at the pen. “I work at the library, the main branch right around the corner. Jim didn’t tell you? That’s how I found you guys. Jim told me you guys could help me out.”

In this business, if you don’t have trust you don’t have anything. So with nothing to lose, I followed Mrs. Carter to the library. After she put down her bag and jacket, she went to the bathroom to touch up her makeup. My reflection in the mirror startled her. The problem with killing people quietly is that they have time to get scared. I put her body into an empty stall and locked the door.

Jim was not hard to find. I went straight to the business section and found him tucked away in a corner. It was late; the wide glass windows no longer lit up the shelves of books. Jim was by himself, in a corner, reading a book entitled The Ethics of Business, which was lit by a single desk lamp. When I was close enough for the light to hit my boots, Jim looked up. 

“What are you doing here, Tom?” Although he seemed surprised, I could tell he was happy to see me, which made me even angrier at him.

“A librarian…you told your fucking librarian to come see us? She knows our address, our phone number…you jackass.” I was furious.

“She’s not going to tell anyone, so why does it matter?” Jim flipped his book over and put it down with the pages open, so he wouldn’t lose his place.

“No, Jim…. You should know better than to trust some stupid bitch who can’t keep her husband interested.” I took out my pistol and pointed it at Jim. “You fucked up.”

He just looked at me; he didn’t scream; he didn’t jump at me; he didn’t even reason with me; he just looked at me with an emotionless expression. It wasn’t a sad expression, but it made me sad, but instead of ignoring him, I just shot him with a whisper of my pistol.

v         v         v

With only my jacket, fifty bills, and a small suitcase, I bought a train ticket to California. By the time I got on the train, it was 3 AM. The train was more-or-less empty, so I found a compartment to myself and settled in. I was tired and leaned my head against the cool window, but couldn’t sleep. The train’s whistle went off in the distance, and the platform drifted away. I watched the city go by. At three in the morning, the city was still alive. The lights, the sounds, the air, everything was vibrating to the beats of the track. But the city eventually passed, and I was alone to stare at the darkness outside my window.