HENRY SAMPSON: FINDER OF WRONGDOING by Howard Feigenbaum

“How was lunch, Henry?” Janet stood by the Keurig coffee maker in the lounge. Her white linen suit emphasized feminine attributes, yet projected a professional demeanor.

     “Some guy in the men’s room pissed on my shoe, and he didn’t want to clean it off―a bad ending to a good lunch at the House of Meatballs.”

     She lifted her head. “What did you do?” When the sound of coffee dripping into her cup stopped, she broke her gaze.

     “I reasoned with him. He came around to my point of view. We ended up having coffee together. You never know when you’ll make a new friend.”

     She laughed. “I’ll bet you threatened to sue him and backed him into a corner, didn’t you?”

     “You know me too well.” He chuckled. “By the way, you look great today. I like the linen suit and the hairdo.”

     Janet, about thirty-four with a yellow-brown complexion inherited from Creole ancestors, smoothed the sides of her coat and reached behind her neck to check for wisps of hair that might have escaped her French roll. “Always the charmer, aren’t you? I’d invite you over for dinner if it weren’t for office policy.”

     “I’d accept if it weren’t for office policy.” Henry flashed a gleaming grin.

     “Enough of that, Henry. We have work to do.” Janet motioned him to follow and headed toward his office.

     Henry sat at his desk and pulled out a legal notepad. “Okay, lady, let’s have it.”

     She brought a chair to the desk. “A new client, Kensington Mining, is under audit by the Securities and Exchange Commission. The company’s headquartered in The Bahamas. The SEC is conducting a money-laundering probe. The firm has a copper mine in Peru. There’s a discrepancy in cash assets. Apparently, the Secret Service found counterfeit dollars in company deposits.”

     “Pretty serious stuff.” Henry looked up from his notes. “Why me?”

     “Since you grew up in Jamaica, the directors believed you’d have the best result in conducting the investigation. You know, a feeling for the culture and the traces of Jamaica in your voice.”

     “Well, all right. They like my color.” He pumped a fist. “So do I. Tell them I want the just-the-right-color bonus.”

     “I’ll send a memo.”

     Henry leaned back in his executive chair. “You know, Janet, my ancestors are African, Irish, and English. But the black blood is the most powerful. If you have one little drop of it in you, you’re black.”

     “Tell me about it.” She placed a binder on the desk. “Here’s the info on Kensington and their business associates.” She flipped a few pages. “Here are their financials, bank records, and 10-K, 10-Q, and 8-K SEC reports for the last four quarters. Let me know if you need to go further back.” She reached into a manila envelope. “These are your tickets to Nassau International. We have you booked from LAX to Miami and a connecting flight to Nassau. Your flight leaves tonight at ten-thirty. You’ll arrive at eleven-thirty in the morning. Kensington will have a car waiting. They’ll want a meet-and-greet right away.”

     “Where’s my home away from home?”

     “You’re at the Marriott downtown, close to Kensington headquarters.”

     “I was hoping for the Four Seasons Ocean Club.” Henry opened his eyes wide and raised his brow.

     “I’ll see what I can do. Don’t get your hopes up.” She placed the documents back in the manila envelope.

     “If anyone can perform miracles, it’s you, Janet.”

     “Don’t forget your passport. Let me know how things are going.”

     Henry stood. “Gotta go home and pack my Speedo.”

     Janet smiled. “I’d like to see how you look in that.”

     He grabbed the envelope and chuckled. “Maybe one day―when one of us doesn’t work here.”

     She fluttered her eyelashes. “Maybe I’ll turn in my resignation.”

     “Not yet, my dear. I like working with you.”

***

Henry made his way to baggage claim. The hem of a coral, embroidered Cubavera shirt fell at his hips. The short sleeves and open collar revealed his muscular physique. Pleated, tan trouser cuffs broke gently over the tops of his closed leather sandals. A broad-brimmed, sand-colored fedora with a light brown band encircled his head. Tortoise shell Ray-Bans shielded his eyes. He tipped his hat to every woman who looked his way.

     At the baggage carousel, a dark-complected Bahamian limo driver held a sign with his name. “Mr. Samson?”

     Henry stopped in front of him. “That’s me.”

     “You the accountant?”

     “Expecting someone different?”

     “I don’t rightly know what to expect. Welcome to Nassau. Call me Calvin. I’ll take your luggage tags.”

     “By all means.”

     After retrieving Henry’s bag, the greeter said, “Follow me, sir. Mr. Kensington is waiting in the limousine parked right outside.” As Calvin approached the vehicle, he set the suitcase on the sidewalk and opened the rear door.

     A white man in his seventies, smoking a cigar, held out his hand. “I’m James Kensington. Have a seat. We have a lot to talk about.”

     “Henry Samson, forensic accountant.” He shook Kensington’s hand and slid into the seat beside him. “I’m here to help.”

     “I’m counting on that. Your firm said you’re the best they have. My company’s in deep shit.”

     “Don’t worry. I brought my shovel.”