Bradstreet report that showed the construction guy as a former Xerox executive. The dipshit couldn’t even spell Xerox. They used the credit lines to order computers and parts from every company that accepted their bullshit, which was basically everyone. Then they undercut the competition on bids to other corporations as well as the military. Since they didn’t intend to pay for the parts it was all profit anyway. And good profit. Once the bills for the parts came due they simply shut down their grungy little office in the cheap part of Ft. Lauderdale west of I-95, and said they had failed in the computer business. No harm, no foul. Just a bunch of debts that the corporation owed. They didn’t intend to resurrect that little company. And the president still laid drywall up in Palm Beach County. Beautiful.
Randy knew some of the parts suppliers were pissed and had made noise about going to the cops, but there was nothing they could do to him. Dale had worried about his Series 63 securities license but in the end no one cared. It was the price of doing business in a place as wild as South Florida.
This endeavor they had now was bigger, bolder, and potentially a lot more profitable. They’d used the profit from the last scam to finance this one. They had moved past small, anonymous offices and mail drops. Now they had the look of a respectable business. And Randy had learned that looks were more important that anything around here.
They had five separate rooms in their corporate empire. The entry, the main room, the trading pit, which was really four desks with phones, and the two offices, which each man claimed. Randy’s was on the Intracoastal side with a view as spectacular as the main room’s of the Seventeenth Street Causeway to the south. They had seen the Goodyear Blimp rise from its hangar to the north in Pompano Beach twice in the six days they had rented the space. Randy wished they could stay here. This was the kind of place that oozed respectability and was so far removed from his normal existence that he sometimes forgot how to act. Like telling Dale he’d “whip his ass” if he didn’t line up dependable people for the trading pit. He had to watch that shit. He also realized that, based on the rent and the deposit, the landlord knew they weren’t on the level and planned on getting his money up front. He’d claim ignorance if anyone ever came by to ask about the company that stayed for less than two months. A lot of people did business that way around here. As long as you showed the cash up front you could claim you were going to be a tenant for the next fifty years and no one would blink. That was why the east coast of Florida from Miami to Boca Raton was the fraud capitol of the western world. Randy was just happy to be part of it.
The two men strolled through the office as Randy leveled picture frames of Florida wildlife. He smiled at the irony that Northeasterners couldn’t resist Florida real estate when they were shown photos of the animals that were being displaced by the new residents. The best photos hung in the trading pit, where Randy intended to casually stop and chat with their investors while the phones rang off the hook. He’d paid the guy who fixed the gas pump on his Chevy thirty bucks to call the four phones on a rotating basis between two and two thirty.
The photo Randy adjusted now was of a Florida panther. If he used that term now all anyone thought of was an underachieving hockey team, but Randy remembered seeing one as a kid when they went camping in Martin County. Even something as plain as an armadillo, which were plentiful a few years ago, were never seen now. But there was no cash in little smelly animals and the fucking New Yorkers were going to move here anyway, so Randy didn’t see any problem making a few bucks on the whole trend. Besides, if he made enough money now maybe a few of these bastards wouldn’t be able to afford to move down. Looking at it from that
Randy knew some of the parts suppliers were pissed and had made noise about going to the cops, but there was nothing they could do to him. Dale had worried about his Series 63 securities license but in the end no one cared. It was the price of doing business in a place as wild as South Florida.
This endeavor they had now was bigger, bolder, and potentially a lot more profitable. They’d used the profit from the last scam to finance this one. They had moved past small, anonymous offices and mail drops. Now they had the look of a respectable business. And Randy had learned that looks were more important that anything around here.
They had five separate rooms in their corporate empire. The entry, the main room, the trading pit, which was really four desks with phones, and the two offices, which each man claimed. Randy’s was on the Intracoastal side with a view as spectacular as the main room’s of the Seventeenth Street Causeway to the south. They had seen the Goodyear Blimp rise from its hangar to the north in Pompano Beach twice in the six days they had rented the space. Randy wished they could stay here. This was the kind of place that oozed respectability and was so far removed from his normal existence that he sometimes forgot how to act. Like telling Dale he’d “whip his ass” if he didn’t line up dependable people for the trading pit. He had to watch that shit. He also realized that, based on the rent and the deposit, the landlord knew they weren’t on the level and planned on getting his money up front. He’d claim ignorance if anyone ever came by to ask about the company that stayed for less than two months. A lot of people did business that way around here. As long as you showed the cash up front you could claim you were going to be a tenant for the next fifty years and no one would blink. That was why the east coast of Florida from Miami to Boca Raton was the fraud capitol of the western world. Randy was just happy to be part of it.
The two men strolled through the office as Randy leveled picture frames of Florida wildlife. He smiled at the irony that Northeasterners couldn’t resist Florida real estate when they were shown photos of the animals that were being displaced by the new residents. The best photos hung in the trading pit, where Randy intended to casually stop and chat with their investors while the phones rang off the hook. He’d paid the guy who fixed the gas pump on his Chevy thirty bucks to call the four phones on a rotating basis between two and two thirty.
The photo Randy adjusted now was of a Florida panther. If he used that term now all anyone thought of was an underachieving hockey team, but Randy remembered seeing one as a kid when they went camping in Martin County. Even something as plain as an armadillo, which were plentiful a few years ago, were never seen now. But there was no cash in little smelly animals and the fucking New Yorkers were going to move here anyway, so Randy didn’t see any problem making a few bucks on the whole trend. Besides, if he made enough money now maybe a few of these bastards wouldn’t be able to afford to move down. Looking at it from that
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