The New York Druid

Chapter one

The Accountant’s Accountant, Sophie remarked and her friend and colleague, Martina, looked up and smiled a little smile.

They watched him cross the Lobby.

Young and Bang, Chartered Accountants, had a large office in New York City. Their discreet forty-floor U.S. Headquarters Building, framed in glass and steel, stood as a Cathedral to modern commerce with a large Lobby illuminated by large stained glass windows plus numerous strip lights and a grand central chandelier in cut glass.

His polished brown leather shoes made little noise as he stayed off the marble and followed the plush carpet leading to the reception desk.

Morning ladies, he said and took off his bowler hat as he spoke.

Morning sir, Sophie and Martina said in unison with smiling faces and professional receptionist manners.

Getting a touch of the giggles, Martina picked up her phone and covered her smile.

Sophie blinked her eyelashes as she uncrossed her legs.

How may we help you … Sir? she asked in her deep voice, pausing before the ‘Sir’ to lick her red lips and meet his eyes.

He stared momentarily and she leaned towards him so her bosoms became more visible. As usual his eyes widened and he looked ready to bolt.

Sophie gave him her smile and looked deep into his eyes, which were hazel green behind brown rounded eyeglasses.

Eh... Hmm... he stammered. I have a new client at nine, could you or Martina show him up please?

Sorry, Sophie said and as his face showed dismay she smiled and added, the Bell-boy will do, you see Martina and I are not allowed to leave the reception area, except for...

What? he wondered as she paused and plucked at a thread on her blouse.

Natural breaks.

Oh, O.K.

He put his bowler hat back on and retreated.

You zapped him again, Martina remonstrated as they watched him walk to the elevators.

I can’t resist it. He always blushes.

You’re naughty.

But nice, Sophie replied.

The phones were ringing and there were numerous visitors. It was just after eight in the morning and they were very busy.

Just before nine, there was a tapping noise. The golden handle of a Blackthorn walking stick was tapping on the counter of the reception desk.

Martina and Sophie looked at each other. There was no one to be seen.

Sophie stood and leaned over.

Wow! Boobs! the small ugly man said.

I beg your pardon, Sophie protested, looking down her nose at the small man on the other side of the counter.

You’re a fine figure of a woman Madame, the little man said warmly and with confidence.

He spoke in a thick country Irish accent, but Sophie, a daughter of the Bronx and never good with foreign accents, wondered was he Russian.

Here from the auld sod for a meeting with Connor, the little man explained.

The auld sod? Who is he?

Ireland girl, the Emerald Isle sometimes called by those familiar, ‘the auld sod.’

Connor?

The Accountant, I’m here to talk about me gold mines.

What?

Nine O’clock appointment, can I go up?

No.

No?

Security, the bell-boy will bring you up.

Right so.

Please sign the book.

I don’t write.

I suppose an X will do?

I don’t write.

I’ll put in an X for you.

Thanks

Jesus, a midget, Martina remarked as they watched him follow the Bellboy towards the elevator.

He put the heart across me, Sophie admitted.

He said you have boobs.

Well of course I have boobs Martina. ‘Fine figure of a woman,’ that’s what he said.

Sophie, don’t tell me you’d fancy a midget? Martina remarked with a wrinkle of her nose.

He had a lively face and he did mention ‘Gold Mines’ Sophie teased with a smile.

Oh please! Martina replied and began to deal with the next arrival.

Leprechaun, Martina said ten minutes later when they had a pause.

What? Sophie asked.

The Midget.

With the gold tipped walking stick?

Yes, the one you fancied.

No I didn’t.

Yes...

No!

Anyway, he was dressed like a Leprechaun.

An Irish Leprechaun?

Is there any other sort?

Well, this is New York.

Strange, I’d say, Martina remarked.

No, not in New York.

You don’t see many midgets dressed as Leprechauns, Martina argued.

So, that’s nothing in New York, Sophie countered.

Probably he likes to be noticed, but I thought it strange.

The only strange in New York is that Connor.

The accountant’s accountant?

Yes Martina, with his Bowler hat and umbrella, come on!

New York, New York, Martina said and grinned.

****

Connor stood at the window behind his small space on the nineteenth floor. The smog was clearing a little as the heat of the morning sun lifted the accompanying mist. He loved this time of day, everything busy and full of bustle and stress.

Not only was he an Associate of the Institute of Chartered Accountants in England and Wales and a member of the Institute of Taxation he was also an American CPA licensed to practice in the U.S.A.

Career wise he was just one floor below the upper suites and the senior partners. He was a specialist junior partner with a small research team specialising in large corporate international tax problems.

Although he was a really smart tax accountant he didn’t expect to make the top floor any time soon. Aged twenty-five, he did not consider himself senior partner material but was satisfied to be a valued member of the team. To be the man to whom all the other partners turned when really knotty tax problems needed tax solutions.

Connor turned to his desk. His high status was reflected in the fact that he had a moveable partition and a flowerpot plant in the large open plan area. Three of his four phones were ringing.

A distraught office assistant was anxiously seated on the edge of the visitor’s chair opposite his desk, anxiously seeking his advice.

You are due with the Managing Partner soonest, Miss Greenbaum his secretary said in her high stress voice as she dumped the relevant files on his desk.

Section twenty three of the U.K. international tax code, he threw to the anxious assistant who nodded like someone given a reprieve began to rush away.

And quote precedence of the Johnston versus Johnson case in the U.K. House of Lords, Connor threw after him. The assistant nodded with vigorous appreciation and continued on his way.

I’m afraid you have a problem with your diary, Miss Greenbaum began hesitantly.

My problem? he asked.

She had the grace to blush.

There’s an appointment in your diary. I don’t know how it got switched from the afternoon. Booked by email, I’m sorry but a new client is due for an interview with you at nine.

Connor sighed a happy sigh. The stress, the fear and pain in the faces of his colleagues, he sighed another happy sigh. He loved stress.

His secretary, unaccustomed to happy sighs, thought he was going to fire her and began to tremble her upper lip.

Get me a coffee, he suggested in calm relaxing tones.

Sorry, I know you have a big meeting...

Connor held up a hand.

I scanned him on my Blackberry on the way in to work. Nine O’clock on ‘Gold Mining.’ I’ll squeeze him in.

As his secretary went for the coffee Connor lifted the ringing phones and hung them up on each other crossing the lines.

He hated phones.

He turned on his computer.

He hated computers.

He took out his fountain pen.

He loved fountain pens with their inky elegance.

But most things came on computers these days. He looked longingly at his stack of ‘in tray’ files. He’d love to spend the morning reading the files and checking the tots and writing in them with his fountain pen. But, he knew that even in a happy job there were downsides. Lack of time was a major negative.

On the other hand if asked, his colleagues would readily acknowledge that he was a wizard on computers even if he did make things complicated just because he was bored with computers.

He zinged through his access codes. He used a complex Alogrithm because it made the computer more interesting and it ensured his files would be encrypted and inaccessible in his absence.

Under Gold Mines Meeting there was a message from his secretary. ‘Nothing on computer, read the green file.’

With a smile and a happy sigh he turned off the computer and went to his safe at the corner wall behind his desk. He twirled the dials opened the door and rummaged.

He frowned.

He rummaged again.

With a smile he pulled out a small green file bearing the legend ‘Gold Mining.’

Ahh, he exclaimed with satisfaction.

Miss Greenbaum returned with a cup of coffee in her hand and a plate of Kimberly biscuits.

Connor tried to give her his severe look but the corners of his mouth twitched. Miss Greenbaum was of an old fashioned genre, some age over sixty and going bald but Connor liked her a lot. Especially since she’d discovered that his favourite biscuit was Kimberly and always had a supply.

There is a midget to see you, she said in her Texan accent.

Rumour had it that Miss Greenbaum had been a gunslinger in the old west, but Connor protested that she couldn’t be that old.

Not the Gold Mine appointment?

Yes, Gold Mines.

Oh, O.K. by the way, ‘Midget’ is politically incorrect. I suggest, ‘vertically challenged.’

Right.

No point in being sued?

Right.

Coffee? Connor offered for openers.

With a drop of Irish whiskey, the Midget said agreeably.

We have scotch but no Irish, Miss Greenbaum was quick to point out.

Listen bitch, the Midget said with passion. Coffee with Irish Whiskey and two sugars and be quick about it!

Miss Greenbaum giggled. She liked a domineering man.

Yes sir! she said and disappeared to make arrangements.

Women! the little man said and went and sat in the soft armchair of the conference couch. Connor took the green file and joined him.

I don’t have too much time, Connor apologised. I am summoned to the presence of the Senior Partner, soonest.

You may have to let him cool his heels, the Midget threatened.

But he gets so stressed.

Who?

The Senior Partner.

I will need a half hour of your time.

O.K. I’ll get Miss Greenbaum to advise accordingly.

But first she gets the Irish Coffee.

She’ll have to shop out.

No bother. Let her at it

How can I help?

I don’t pay taxes.

Never?

Never ever.

My good man either you are very wealthy or you are in deep trouble.

They got me on St. Patrick’s day.

What.

I came to the States for the New York Parade and they nabbed me.

Who?

The Feds.

Federal Tax Authorities?

You got it.

Which investigator?

A man called Dreyfus.

Connor had a sip of his coffee. You would not be able to tell from his demeanour that inside he was screaming ‘Dreyfus the most difficult tax fraud investigator in New York!’

And? Connor prompted calmly.

They’d noticed I had gold mines and they wanted to know about the gold.

Yes, and did you respond?

I offered him three wishes.

Bribery?

So, he alleges.

Bribery and Tax evasion?

You got it.

And you want me to help?

Yep.

I will need full and honest disclosure.

I’ll do my best.

Miss Greenbaum arrived in a flurry and announced she and the bellboy were about to seek a bottle of whiskey.

Miss Greenbaum? Connor asked as she made to go.

Sir?

I only find a blank slip of paper in the green file?

Arrived by post referenced for this meeting sir.

Did you read it? the Midget asked.

The blank sheet of paper? Connor asked.

Turn it over, the Midget suggested.

What?

It’s a blank check.

So, it is. Thank you, Miss Greenbaum, you may leave us.

Yes sir.

You sent a blank check? he asked the Midget.

Right.

For?

Your fees.

Oh...

Connor shrugged, he liked clients who sent blank checks in advance for fees. In his experience they were a rare breed.

They were deep into detail when Miss Greenbaum returned in an agitated state with coffee and cream followed by the bellboy carrying a bottle of Irish whiskey.

I nearly got arrested, she confessed.

Be quiet or I’ll take me stick to yer backside, the Midget barked.

Yes sir, she said and put the coffee and cups on the table.

The Bellboy approached nervously, and the Midget grabbed the bottle of whiskey. The Bellboy left as fast as his legs could carry him without running.

I showed him a few tricks on the way up in the elevator, the cheeky sod, the Midget said to the retreating rear of the Bellboy as he unscrewed the whiskey.

Connor passed no remark on his client’s rudeness. He believed one should give some extra leeway to clients who sent blank checks for fees in advance.

Shall I pour? Miss Greenbaum offered.

I’d prefer a kiss, the Midget offered.

With a squeak of a shriek Miss Greenbaum departed quickly.

Really, Connor said.

Really nothing.

The poor woman...

There’s nothing poor about her. I know the type. She’s as tough as old boot.

I don’t want her to complain.

She’ll get over it.

You did add a bit of interest to her normal day.

The Midget laughed and slapped his knee.

That’s a good one, he said.

So, it’s the gold mines. Do they really exist? Connor said, getting back to the work in hand. Given the high fees he charged he hated to waste client time.

We hold them through an offshore company in Lichtenstein.

And?

The taxman has calculated volumes extracted. How he got the figures I’ll never know.

And he thinks you owe him for back taxes?

You got it.

Kimberly biscuit? Connor offered to be polite though in truth he did not like to give away his Kimberly biscuits.

I love Kimberly biscuits, the Midget confessed.

Would you like me to take your hat?

Why?

Indoors while you take your coffee?

I suppose so, but I don’t like to let it out of my sight, and I wouldn’t trust that one.

That one?

Miss Greenbaum.

She’s very honest.

Other women have coveted my hat.

I’ll put it on the desk where you can see it.

Take me gloves and stick and jacket as well. I might as well be comfortable.

Connor took the tall green hat. The little man looked even smaller without his hat. Connor put the white silk gloves with the green gold-buttoned jacket and the gold tipped blackthorn stick on his desk.

Where are the Kimberly biscuits? the little man demanded.

While Connor got the Kimberly biscuits from the safe where he’d accidentally left them, the little man made himself comfortable on the couch. His feet hardly reached to the ground, so he put his feet up on the coffee table.

Interesting shoes, Connor remarked, noticing the highly polished gold buckles.

Made them myself. I’m a cobbler.

I thought you owned gold mines?

That too.

I tried to Google you without success.

I hate computers.

Right.

Connor said the ‘right’ with just the right amount of emphasis and enquiry.

O’Reilly by name, the little man introduced himself and shook Connor’s hand while taking a biscuit with the other.

How would you spell that? Connor asked, not really catching the accent.

O’Reilly, the little man said slowly and clearly.

And how did you get the appointment arranged? Connor asked with mild curiosity while he took a cup of coffee.

Miss Greenbaum.

You know her?

No.

Chapter two

The secretaries were in a panic.

Mr. Hodgson, the senior Admin Partner, seemed to be having a heart attack.

Ms. Clinton, the senior female Partner, was making strange noises.

Mr. Jones was tearing a napkin.

The other Partners were in a general state of nervous attack.

Except the senior Managing Partner, Mr. Garbacz.

Mr Garbacz was dancing. … Well, more like doing a jig… Well even more, having a tantrum. A tantrum while he hopped from one foot to the other, red in face and occasionally slamming his hand down on the table.

Late! he repeated yet again. Late!!! And he slammed the table again.

The assembled Partners nodded in agreement and disapproval. The Senior Managing Partner was never kept waiting, not ever.

Ehh … Hmmp… Connor said as he knocked on the partially open door.

Sorry, he added with a half smile and slipped in and around the door.

The Senior Managing Partner, Mr. Garbacz, stopped dancing and commenced glaring with a hard stare.

Taking advantage of the pause, his personal assistant, a certain Mr. Riseley, handed Mr. Garbacz a glass of water and some tranquillisers.

Connor made his way to his place at the junior end of the table. He sat, tore the wrapper off a bar of chocolate, took a bite and said, Morning all, to break the ominous silence, while he chewed and smiled at the same time.

They regarded him with amazement. The last time the Senior Managing Partner had been kept waiting, the security people had escorted the offending Partner off the premises via the rear exit. Rumour had it they’d stripped him naked and thrown him into the garbage bin. Rumour further had it that the same offending Partner had last been seen in rags begging up in Queens.

Connor met Mr. Garbacz’s stare.

I mentioned I’d be delayed, he offered.

Mr Garbacz seemed frozen, but the tranquillizers were beginning to hit the spot.

Riseley reached for the phone to inform security, but stopped with his hand on the phone as he caught Mr. Garbacz’s eye.

Disappointed, he sat back but remained on alert and ready. He’d never liked Connor. He smiled at Connor as he began to imagine what the Senior Managing Partner might order done to Connor and wondered what form of public humiliation he would devise.

But then the Senior Managing Partner smiled. Not a warm smile, more a wan smile, but nonetheless, a smile.

Connor, he said. I see you are able to join us.

A relaxation spread around the table. They all began to drink glasses of water and straighten up a little. The senior team knew every nuance of the Senior Managing Partner’s voice tone. The tone in which the words addressed to Connor were spoken said it all. Crisis over.

Riseley glanced at the tranquilliser packet. Definitely, he had not given an overdose. Something important was up. The Senior Managing Partner was being nice. Definitely, there was major trouble.

Delayed, Connor confessed with a grin and swallowed his bite of chocolate languorously.

Delayed? the Senior Managing Partner enquired in a strangulated voice.

New client vertically challenged.

A murmur of incomprehension went around the table.

Vertically? the Senior Managing Partner asked with a slight movement of his right eyebrow.

Not very tall, Connor explained and took another square of chocolate.

The Senior Managing Partner began his deep breathing exercises.

Connor nodded and smiled in approval, clearly the Senior Managing Partner was trying to calm down.

I need to be alone with Connor, the Senior Managing Partner suggested.

They stared in wonder.

The Senior Managing Partner sat down.

The other Partners immediately gathered up their papers, and with as much decorum as hurry would allow, they quickly departed.

Once outside they began relieved, excited, office gossip.

Out! the Senior Managing Partner barked and Riseley who had dutifully stayed behind, jumped an inch in startled surprise. He stood and bowed his way out.

Sitting at his end of the table, the Senior Managing Partner regarded Connor on the other end, with a baleful eye.

Are you trying to give me a heart attack? he asked mildly.

I’ve told you to suppress your ego; it will help you feel better.

I hate everyone! the Senior Managing Partner shouted and banged the table.

I know, I know, Connor soothed. It’s not your fault.

Do you want my job! the Senior Managing Partner demanded.

No, of course not.

No of course not, the Senior Managing Partner repeated, mimicking Connor’s Brooklyn tinged accent.

Connor smiled.

Then the Senior Managing Partner sighed a deep sigh. Connor, you are the only one I trust, he said.

Very wise, Connor agreed.

Why, this day of days, did you have to see a new client? The Senior Managing Partner allowed a touch of exasperation to enter his tone. Connor shrugged to convey his own puzzlement. Nobody knows how he got the appointment.

Fire them all! the Senior Managing Partner thundered, turning red in the face.

Connor smiled.

He stood and walked to the Senior Managing Partner.

Have a piece of chocolate, he offered.

The Senior Managing Partner just stared.

Connor placed a piece of paper in front of him.

What’s this?

A blank check.

A …?

From the new client, Connor interjected.

Is he mad?

He owns gold mines.

Yes?

The Inland Revenue want him to pay a hundred million dollars in taxes and fines.

And?

He is agreeable to my fee of twenty percent of the amount saved.

How much can you save?

A hundred million.

The Senior Managing Partner picked up the blank check.

You are telling me I have twenty million dollars in my hand?

After I visit Ireland.

Where?

It’s an island in Europe off the west coast of England…

I know, I know, my mother’s family claim they came from Ireland.

Interesting, Connor commented. My parents had an Irish name...

O’Connor? the Senior Managing partner suggested.

But they said they were Chinese, Connor explained.

Did you believe them?

No but I had to learn Chinese.

Scepticism, that’s why you are such a good accountant, the Senior Managing Partner said with satisfaction.

They didn’t even like rice.

Evidence, that’s what I say. Always examine the evidence.

By the way, Connor said to change the subject and then waited while the Senior Managing Partner began to chew his piece of chocolate.

Connor had noticed that chewing sometimes affected the Senior Managing Partner’s hearing as many the unobservant participant at business lunches had discovered to their later dismay.

By the way? the Senior Managing Partner repeated hopefully.

I said I’d have news today.

From Dreyfus the tax inspector? the Senior Managing Partner asked apprehensively.

‘You won’t have to go to jail after all," Connor said gently in a soothing voice.

I won’t?

And you won’t have to pay fifty million in tax and fines.

The Senior Managing Partner took another piece of chocolate. His mood was beginning to lighten.

No one else in the firm will need to know, Connor continued as he placed the negotiated settlement from Dreyfus in front of his boss.

Never?

You are fined a hundred thousand, but it will be confidential.

Secret?

The files are encrypted in my computer.

The Senior Managing Partner took Connor’s hand and kissed the back of it.

How did you do it? he asked with reverence.

If I tell you the firm would have to destroy the files and have you assassinated, Connor joked.

Fine, don’t tell me!

Don’t be cross.

I’m not cross.

Good.

The Senior Managing Partner read the paper from Dreyfus. It was clear to him that somehow, he was now in the clear. He smiled and put down the papers.

Why do you have to go to Ireland? he asked.

My new little client, a Mr. O’Reilly, says that the gold the revenue alleges he has sold is stockpiled.

So?

"So, if the gold