I was tooling around the internet marveling at how competitive the big retailers had become when Wilson ducked into my office.
“Got a second?” he asked.
“You just used it,” I said, puzzling over which online operation was worthy of my purchase.
Wilson sat down and said, “We need to talk about Stephens.”
I ignored the remark and was set to order from Target if I could confirm shipping was free.
“It’s amazing,” I said. “Target, Amazon and Walmart all have the exact same lamp priced within four cents of each other. From $79.95 to $79.99. I’m not sure which one to go with. I know with Amazon I’ll probably get the thing seconds after I order. But I feel like spreading the wealth around a little, know what I mean?
Wilson nodded, indulging me.
“Maybe Target,” I said. “It seems like a nice Minneapolis company. But they are three cents more than Amazon.”
“I think Stephens is involved in something bad,” Wilson said.
I turned from the computer not wanting to commit to the sale just yet, and Wilson provided the ideal distraction to keep me from making that last click.
“And I think we need to do an intervention,” he said.
I gave it three seconds of serious thought and said, “Drinking? It wouldn’t surprise me. He hasn’t been the same since the Great Holiday Party fiasco.”
Wilson was shaking his head like I didn’t understand. He was correct.
“No, no,” he said. “Have you seen the way he’s dressing lately? And he’s throwing money around like he can’t get rid of it fast enough.”
“Hmmmm,” I said. “Maybe it’s just a wardrobe upgrade after the lockdown. I know I could stand a few new shirts, maybe some shoes too.”
“No, this is different. He’s wearing better clothes than before. And jewelry. I even saw a gold chain around his neck the the other day. Plus, I saw him get out of a new Tesla. And I’m talking a high-end one, the Model S.”
“Hmmm, that is odd. Stephens has always been a Prius man if memory serves me,” I said.
Wilson leaned forward, glanced behind him to make sure no one was near the door and spoke in a near whisper.
“I think he may be selling illegal substances.”
I rocked back in my chair, shocked by the accusation.
“What? Stephens?” I gasped.
Wilson nodded.
“Like our own little Breaking Bad?”
“Could be,” Wilson said.
But it couldn’t be, at least so far as I was concerned. Stephens was as mild-mannered and upright as they come. A pillar of the team, well at least before the holiday party mishap. But that could have happened to anybody.
“Let me see,” I said, getting up. “I’m sure there’s some reasonable explanation.”
We headed down the hall and approached Stephens’ office. I heard his voice booming. He was happy and laughing and talking to someone. We pulled up short of the door and eavesdropped.
“That’s right, Chet, I’m getting rid of the Tesla. Gave it a try but I want to go with a Maserati. What do you have for me? And money is not a problem.”
I turned and looked at Wilson. We were both aghast. Something was definitely going on with Stephens. We waited for the call to end and then strolled in like we just happened to be passing by.
“Hey,” I said, sitting down. “Couldn’t help but overhear. A Maserati, huh?”
Wilson took a seat next to me. We were both mesmerized by the stacks of money on Stephens’ desk. It was like we were in a bank vault and not an office. And Stephens looked sharper than ever in a nice crisp dress shirt.
Maybe Wilson was right after all. Stephens had gone around the bend. Now it was a question of what to do. Turn him in, or talk him out of this life of crime.
“Ah, yes, the Maserati,” Stephens said, like there was nothing wrong. “Why not, right? I think I’ll give the Tesla to the wife to drive.”
“I…I thought you drove a Prius,” Wilson said.
Stephens laughed and said, “I did. That’s going to our oldest, I mean when he’s old enough to drive. After all, he and his two sisters are responsible for all this,” he said, motioning expansively to the stacks of bills.
“Good heavens,” I blurted out, jumping from my chair “you’ve involved your kids in this…this drug enterprise? How low can you go, man?”
Stephens looked at me, puzzled and hurt.
“Drugs?” he said.
“Ah, you admit it,” Wilson chimed in. “You disgust me.”
Stephens looked at the two of us, then the money, and started to laugh. “No, geez guys, come on, not drugs.”
“Well, where are you getting the money from?” Wilson demanded.
“The government,” Stephens said. “Uncle Sam.”
Wilson and I exchanged looks, then looked to Stephens as he worked to explain.
“It’s from the IRS,” he said. “They drop like a thousand bucks a month into our joint account. It shows up like clockwork, whether we need it or not. It’s that Advance Child Tax Credit Payment thing.”
I did some internal math to try and get a handle on Stephens’ salary. Terri and I were priced out of the government freebie with our combined salaries, but Stephens and his wife had apparently hit the free money jackpot.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Stephens said, “we’re not well off, but we’re comfortable. And the house is close to paid off, retirement and college funds on track, so we figured, what the hell, this will be our ‘fun money,’ “ he said. “And if they make it permanent we’ll take in thousands more a year.”
There was silence while Wilson and I tried to get our heads around this. Mild-mannered Stephens sitting behind a desk full of cash, and driving high end cars, thanks to Uncle Sam.
“A likely story,” Wilson said, apparently not buying it.
“What?” Stephens said, “you don’t believe me? Call the IRS. I did. I offered to give the money back. They laughed me off the phone. Said I was entitled to it even if I didn’t need it. We have kids in the right age range. What can I say?”
I gave it some thought, then said, “How about, ‘lunch is on me?’ ”
“Good idea,” Stephens said, “There’s a nice super expensive place a few blocks over.”