Risk

Now what?

The mirror didn’t lie: the follicles at the front were sparse. They got thicker further back, but how long till the clearcut spread across the land, and he was entirely deforested? Martin looked at his hair, which was just kind of swooped over and parted on the left. No comb-over, just side part and left long all around. No chemicals or goop in his hair, so it looked a bit “mad-scientistish” when it got all messy in the wind or something. He really did need a haircut. And a new barber. One who didn’t go by such an antiquated moniker.

He got dressed, leaving the tie until after breakfast, and checked the fridge for food: milk for his cereal, a few condiments, ham, swiss cheese, butter, OJ. Not much in the way of salad fixins or fruit. That can’t be healthy. He made a mental note to investigate the produce aisle on his next grocery shop.

He poured out a bowl of Fruit Loops and milk, reached for the sugar, but decided against it. Munching contentedly, he wondered what healthy people ate for breakfast. The box said he was getting 11 essential vitamins and minerals, but somehow he felt it couldn’t be this easy. The unlikely rainbow coloring on the toucan’s beak in the box illustration didn’t help to reassure him about the overall quality of the product.

Breakfast finished, he looped his neck with silk and tightened the hangman’s knot and stood in front of his mirror for an appraisal of the full package. Portly, with rumpled attire that didn’t fit quite right (but had been great value, bought during an end of season sale), receding mad scientist hair… what a catch! Single women look out, here he comes in his beige Tercel. Vroom, vroom, it whispers. Women say, “What was that?” “Did you hear something?”

The Finch Rocket station was unexpectedly busy, due to some delay, so he had to stand up on the subway train to downtown. Luckily, he got a pole, because he simply couldn’t do the kind of free-standing train surf that hardcore commuters seemed to master. He didn’t have the balance for it, he guessed.

They rolled into Union Station at a quarter past eight. He allowed himself to be swept along by the crowd to his destination, and rode the elevator for 46 floors with the urge to fart, butt cheeks silently clenched until he got off and sought the relief of a discreet chuff in the men’s washroom while he checked his hair. Entered the office at 8:30 on the dot.

“Good morning, Janice. How are you this morning?”

“Great. How ‘bout you?”

“Fantastic.”

Lunch in the fridge, coffee in hand, access the cube and log on, pull together a few files and check out today’s word on the vocabulary builder:

Amelioration - (amee-lior-ayshun) n. The action of making better; the being made better; an improvement.

“The repair was an amelioration of the... no, the renovation was an amelioration of the look of the house.”

“Morning, Marty. You’re babbling a bit early today, aren’t you?”

“Morning, Dave.”

As soon as the system was live, he checked the claims screen to see if there was a second claim entered for Ultimate Diecasting. But, nothing. Just the first one, and the reserve had been increased to $575 grand! He quickly made his way over to the claims area and Jason’s cube, knocking on the partition wall just as he was hanging up the phone.

“Hi, Jason. What’s with the reserve increase?”

“And good morning to you. I assume you mean on Ultimate Fly-casting?”

“Yes,” said Martin. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and put his hands in his pockets to keep them still.

“He showed me the books. That contract was worth a half mil. And it’s going to cost a bundle to duplicate the plans from old records, not to mention the time required. It’s gonna be a huge B.I. loss.”

“Who was the contract for?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. Guards that like it was gold.”

“I’ve noticed that,” said Martin. “It’s got to be something military.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Everything so top secret. But his documentation is sufficient for his proof of loss. I’ve already talked to his lawyer.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

“Good. It seems pretty legit. I don’t get the sense of it being an inside job. This guy would never risk that. He’s definitely P.O.’d that this mess has occurred, and he’s told me it jeopardizes his future contracts.”

Martin's brow tightened. “Oh. I was thinking that it might have been an inside job.”

“Yeah, I thought that was what you were implying the other day. So I did take statements from most of the key staff, and apart from one nervous nellie, nothing much came of it.”

“What about this nervous nellie?”

“Oh, the shop supervisor. He just acted really nervous about my questions, and didn’t like having to give a statement. Asked me did I think he’d robbed the place. A few red flags, but he had an alibi. Bowling night and then home to the wife. Seemed very confident about that, and the wife confirmed it. I think he’s just a nutbar. Paranoid case. You sometimes see that type, and you have to weed them out.”

“Interesting. What was his name?”

Jason checked his file. “Tom Peterson.”

“Thanks.”

Jason was all right when you got him alone, without an audience. Martin knew he cared about his job and enjoyed the investigative side of claims. He was capable of a few civil words at times. Especially at home, Martin thought as he walked back to his desk. He spoke fondly of his young son, who he looked after on weekends since the divorce. An enigma. The sarcastic exterior was probably some kind of defense mechanism.

The B.I., or Business Interruption loss, would probably have to be paid. Unless they could prove that the contract was for something military or high hazard which would constitute non-disclosure. If somebody had a fire or a break-in, and as a result they were unable to carry on business for awhile, not only did the insurance company have to pay for the damaged or stolen goods, but also for the profit the insured lost while they couldn’t carry on business. As long as they had that coverage on their policy. Which this file did, unfortunately.

What Jason had said had given Martin an idea, but he wanted to talk to George first before he tried anything. He went back to his desk and pulled out the card for Matrix Messenger Service.

“Hello, Matrix dispatcher.”

“Hi, it’s Martin Porchnik calling,” he said, mentioning the name of his company.

“Hi, Martin. You’ve got a rush pickup?”

“No, I need to talk to George, one of your couriers. Can you get a message to him?”

“I could put a call out on the radio. What’s the message?”

“Call Martin at this number,” he said, giving him the number.

“Okay, got it. I’ll do it right now.”

“Thanks a lot.” He hung up. The business card for Ultimate Diecasting was in the inspection file, so he tore it out and put it in his pocket. George called back within ten minutes.

“Hi, Marty. What’s up?”

“George. I was wondering if you could meet me for coffee after lunch. I have an idea about our case that I want to run by you.”

“Cool. Where do you want to meet?”

“In the Starbucks at the bottom of our elevators?”

“Okay, I think I can picture it.”

“Good, I’ll meet you there at 2:00.”

“See you then.”