Page 63 of Golden Touch
“You had your own bookkeeping business?”
I shake my head. “I was working for an accounting firm and had a variety of client accounts. The work was steady, and they paid me by the hour, but not very well. When Razor asked me to do the Rutland shop—and said he’d pay me directly—I loved that idea.”
“Cutting out the middleman,” Benito says.
“Exactly. I was happy to do it, and the books were no more complicated than I was used to.”
“How did the business look to you on paper?” he asks. “How did the money flow?”
“Honestly, it looked really ordinary at first. For expenses, they bought motorcycle parts and had a payroll with, like, seven guys on it. For income, they invoiced customers for repairs. It was very straightforward.”
“And they were profitable?” Benito asks.
“Sure. Bear in mind that I have never run a motorcycle repair shop. In retrospect, seven guys seems like a lot of manpower. But I didn’t have any reason to question it until later.”
“I get it,” he says. “When did things start to seem weird?”
I let out a sigh. “He’s crafty. Don’t let the rough appearance fool you. The man knows how to play a long game. He gave me a taste of working on his books and getting paid directly. But he didn’t ask me to take on more until later. He waited until I got good and fed up at my regular job.”
“With the accounting firm?”
“Right. The owner had a nephew in college who wanted to pick up some hours, so they reduced mine and gave him more. I was mad. But Razor didn’t rush in and solve my problems yet. He took me out on a few nice dates and was very sympathetic as my income dwindled and I started to send out my résumé. Then I got an offer from another accountant…”
“And that’s when he pounced,” Benito guesses.
“Yeah.” I heave another sigh. “And it’s possible that Razor wasn’t just stalling. Before I started doing the books, all the business records were decentralized across his network of operations. No one person could see how the money flowed. He was taking a risk, bringing it all together.”
“Ah.” Benito scribbles thoughtfully on his notebook. “You ever meet any of those other people? From the other parts of the operation?”
“Sometimes? It wasn’t easy for me to tell who was a business associate, and who was just a friend who rode over for some beers. But there was this one dude who helped run the Burlington shop. He was the club member who’d done the books up there. But he wasn’t any good at it. The recordswere a mess. I’m pretty sure that’s why Razor needed a change. He was worried about me catching on, but he was even more worried that they didn’t have a great handle on the business.”
Benito gives another thoughtful nod. “So what was his name? And what was it like when you took over?”
“They call him ‘Fish’ because his last name is Fishman. First name is John or James or something forgettable like that. He brought me, like, two dozen file boxes. I spent the first month just trying to get a handle on it all. Nothing was electronic—it was all in folders. I moved everything to Quickbooks.”
He looks up from his notes. “You still remember the password?”
“Sure. But there’s no chance it would still work. Razor is not a stupid man.”
Benito rubs his forehead. “Okay. When did you realize they were a dirty operation? What tipped you off in the books?”
“Well, the cash. Lots of deposit slips for cash, and very few credit card charges. But even that didn’t bother me so much at first, because bikers can be really old school. They like cash. And otherwise, the paper trail made sense. Burlington was amuchbigger operation. The garage was busy, with constant income from repairs. But they were also a dealership, with lots of purchases and sales of used motorcycles. And motorcycles aren’t cheap, right? A used Harley can go for twenty grand if it’s in pristine condition.”
“Sure,” Benito says. “So how did you know something was wrong?”
“One day I went shopping.” I shrug. “Took a day in Burlington with my cousin. We tried on dresses and went out to lunch on Church Street. On my way home, I drove through South Burlington. I don’t even know why, but I took a detour off Route 7. I knew the address of the shop. I drove past it.”
Benito waits, a smile on his face.
“You already know what I’m going to say, don’t you? Theshop is tiny. One step up from a shed. Barely a sign outside. No showroom full of used bikes for sale.”
“Yeah, I’ve spent a few dull nights staking it out. Not a lot of action there. So what did you do then?”
“Went home and asked Razor about it. Shared my confusion.” I roll my eyes at my own stupidity. As if this was a funny little thing that happened.
But it wasn’t funny at all.
“What did he say?” Benito asks softly.
