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Lady lifted her head and immediately put it back down. She, too, was too tuckered out to care about a treat.
Chapter Five
Donald Walsh
Donald Walsh was the third generation of his family to work in masonry. Donald’s grandfather began the family business right after World War II in Waretown, New Jersey, and took advantage of the burgeoning housing market and the G.I. Bill. As a kid, Donald heard about the Freemasons and asked his grandfather about them, but his grandfather never wanted to discuss it. At first Donald thought that was because it was a secret society, but their tenets were familiar: brotherly love, truth, relief. Donald suspected it was the lack of “brotherly love” in his own family that kept them out of the larger fraternity. There was always bickering among the adult brothers—and the sisters-in-law weren’t much better. The rivalry and jealousy was palpable. Like a lot of families, holiday dinners were often tense. But as he got older, Donald discovered truth was yet another tenet they lacked.
Sometime around Donald’s fifteenth birthday his father instructed him to take a ride with him and his two uncles, Tommy and Jimmy. Starting then, every Friday night the three men and Donald climbed into their Buick Century and headed into town, arriving just as the stores were closing. The first time Donald got fidgety, thinking the stores would be shuttered before they got there. By the third or fourth stop, Donald realized he was their lookout while the others collected their weekly “vig.” They called it “protection money.” Protection from the Walshes and their pack. They got away with it for a very long time.
No one would have suspected they were a criminal family. They certainly didn’t look like gangsters. And Donald’s father, George Walsh, was no Vito Corleone. The older Donald got, the more he discovered that racketeers come in all shapes and sizes: flannel or cashmere; bolo or four-in-hand silk tie; Gucci loafers or Timberland work boots. You didn’t need to wear a black suit with a black overcoat and a fedora with a cigar hanging out of your mouth to be a criminal.
In the light of day, the Walsh family looked like a typical, blue-collar, middle-class family with a family-owned business. The three brothers were married with children, lived in typical modest ranch houses, and attended church regularly. At least the women did. The men would show up for the holidays or special occasions. The brothers belonged to a bowling league and the wives tended to the kids while holding part-time, even full-time, jobs.
It was the 1980s. New York City was rife with crime. The rate of violence had doubled in less than two decades. Even though their little town was over an hour away from the pit of chaos, the Walshes preyed on people’s fears. It didn’t take much to convince the local merchants that they needed protection. Fear was what the Walshes counted on. Truth be told, the only regular crime in Waretown was someone stealing the newspaper off someone’s front lawn, or the occasional shoplifter. But it only took one staged mugging to convince the townspeople they needed their own godfather. The brothers weren’t necessarily greedy. They didn’t want to wipe out the local businesses. But they knew a skim off the top of the cash the storekeepers weren’t declaring on their taxes wouldn’t do that much harm.
George Walsh didn’t have the brains of a Corleone, fictional or otherwise. His racket looked easy enough and lasted almost a decade. The Walshes’ plan was to invest the money in a casino in Atlantic City. In the beginning, the casino owner kept telling them the casino wasn’t making money, and it normally took five years before they could expect a profit. But within those five years, the developer declared bankruptcy and all their illicit gains were gone. Stupidity or karma? Maybe a bit of both.
As the big-box stores began to spring up in the towns along the Long Island Expressway, the mom-and-pop shops closed, were sold, or the owners retired. The days of pilfering the locals were over. The Walshes were forced to live within their means and lick their financial wounds.
By the time Donald finished high school, he knew his future was in concrete. Provided it wasn’t cement shoes. Donald was not a stellar student; nor was he a dolt. At the very best, he was average. Not that there was anything wrong with average, except where his father was concerned. George took his own failings out on his son, telling him the only thing that mattered was money and power. Get one, you got both. “And ya got neither, boy! Make something of yourself!” Those words were drummed into Donald’s head until his father’s last, booze-soaked breath. Yes, George was bitter. Everything he and his brothers had built was in shambles. But who was to blame? No one took responsibility, so he just took it out on his own kid.
After the family business folded and his father passed, Donald went to work for a competitor. Over the course of five years, he rose in middle management and developed a good network of contractors in Long Island. As luck would have it, one of the biggest manufacturers of masonry products was looking for a plant manager and Donald had exactly the right credentials for the job. For the next thirty years Donald would continue to work for REBAR, but climbing the corporate ladder was not in the cards. He didn’t have the finesse. What he did have was experience, and a little bit of intimidation—something in his family’s DNA.
The roller coaster ride that was his family’s business had made Donald wary of almost everyone he met. He was somewhat of a loner apart from his bowling league. Now, at fifty-five, he was still single with no prospects. Not that he cared. Like the rest of his coworkers, he was just going through the motions. Retirement wasn’t too far off on the horizon when an opportunity presented itself. And it came from someone he least expected: Malcolm Fielder, head of manufacturing in the Caribbean.
Late one afternoon when Donald was making the final rounds for the day, Fielder approached him. “Walsh, is it?”
Donald was surprised the man knew him by name. “Yes. I’m Donald Walsh.” He reserved the comeback “Who wants to know?” The custom-tailored suit and polished shoes indicated this man was a very high-ranking official, so he’d wait for an introduction.
Fielder held out his hand. “Malcolm Fielder. VP of manufacturing in the Caribbean.”
Donald shook the man’s hand. It was very unusual for executives to visit the plant unannounced. Once a year, around the holidays, the bigwigs would parade about the plant offering holiday greetings as they handed out paltry bonuses. “Been a rough year. The economy and all,” was the usual excuse. But everyone knew the bonuses were drawn from a pool and the executives divvied it up, keeping the lion’s share for themselves. The employees would smile and offer their gratitude, secretly knowing they were being duped. But it was a job and came with benefits. For most of them that was enough. But Donald was still on the fence about accepting his lot in life.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fielder. What can I do for you?”
Fielder put his arm around Walsh’s shoulder. “Perhaps there is something we can do for each other.”
And so it began.
Walsh was given a small office in the corporate building in Midtown Manhattan. Because he wasn’t considered an executive, he wasn’t required to wear a suit. Instead he stuck with a blazer, trousers, button-down shirt and tie. He went to a thrift shop in Great Neck where they carried the castoffs from rich families who only wore what was trending for the current season. Women had much more to choose from amid the discarded clothing, but rest assured the rich housewives of Long Island weren’t going to allow their husbands to be seen in last year’s Burberry, so there was also a modest selection for men. Walsh was fortunate that he was of average build and he managed to find three blazers that had been barely worn. The sleeves on one were a bit short, but he didn’t care. No one was going to call the fashion police on him. He stopped at a Target store on the way home and also purchased six ties and five shirts. He managed to pull it all off by rotating shirts, jackets and his six ties. He thought he was rather clever about the ties. He wouldn’t be seen wearing the same one within the same week. He had two pairs of shoes. One he wore to and from work, the other when he was in the office or on the rare occasion of a seasonal dinner with the bowling league. Each day he carried his laptop and his good shoes in a nylon bag with him to work.
The new gig suited Donald, but things began to change when Fielder sent him on his first fateful trip to Santo Domingo.
Chapter Six
Izzie/Zoe/Yoko
When Zoe and Izzie returned to Izzie’s, hot toddies were in order. The two sat curled up on the long sofa facing the fireplace with their drinks. “I know this is a lot to process,” Izzie said, and she began to explain in as much detail as she could without compromising confidential information. “As you noticed, Myra, Annie, Charles, and Fergus have a very elaborate operation. They rescued me and many others like me.”
“Yes, I got that part,” Zoe said steadily.
“All I can tell you is that they are the most trustworthy and loyal people you will ever meet. While it’s not mandatory, you may be called upon at a later date to help another woman in jeopardy.” Izzie peered at Zoe, trying to read her thoughts. “Yes, kind of like the mafia but . . .” Izzie stopped short. She was going to say, “but not as ruthless,” which would have been a lie. “But we don’t use guns.” Then she giggled, trying to lighten the mood.
“Well, that’s a relief.” Zoe snickered as well.
“Seriously, this is what it seems. We are a secret group of justice-seekers. Our range is far and wide thanks to our leadership and resources. If I were asked for a suitable description, I’d say we’re not very different from Charlie’s Angels. The difference is there are more of us, and we know who Charlie is.” Izzie chuckled and gave Zoe a little more background about the women. “Kathryn drives an eighteen-wheeler cross country. When her husband was wheelchair-bound she took up his route while he accompanied her as a passenger. One night when they were at a truck stop, three men on motorcycles decided it would be fun to rape Kathryn while her husband helplessly watched.”
“Oh my God! That is awful,” Zoe said with dismay.
