REKT - Chapter 2

Barcelona

My punctuality is well noted in our circles. I don't run late. I used to think it was out of respect for others, but it is not. Everyone on the circuit runs ten minutes late. That’s the standard. Showtime, we call it. I can't do showtime, so now I know this respect of time is for me and not for others. If I have made a commitment, I must be there. Otherwise, my anxiety kicks in, my blood pressure rises, and my thoughts tunnel down to a single imperative. Get there now. I wish I was not wired so tight; my anxiety gets out of control sometimes. Being on time is one of many lifehacks I use to keep it in check.

That explains why I am at Ristorante Adolfo by myself. Being in Barcelona all week has left everyone tired of tapas, which is why we are meeting the Juntos team at an Italian place just off the conference center. They are a mid-tier exchange, but the largest in Latin America. Crypto has not caught on there yet, but when it does, they will become very important players.

The waiter comes by to refill my water. I place a hand over the glass, the international symbol for no more. I've given up on Spanish, mine is horrible and they all speak Catalan anyway. When you arrive early you drink too much water, then have to pee when the meeting gets into gear. If you haven't figured it out already, I spend a lot of time in booths by myself. It's a way of living. It's the way I'm living.

I catch a glimpse of Crocodile Dundee's hat bobbing up and down. The hat navigates the outside of the restaurant, heading towards the entrance. The hat’s owner is obscured by the frosting on the glass facade, but I know it is Deacon Joe. I know this because that really is Crocodile Dundee's hat. He bought the entire outfit at auction and had it tailored to his smaller frame. It’s one of three things he wears including a kimono. Joe is not supposed to be a part of this meeting, but he likes to pop in whenever he can. I assume this is just a quick hello. Joe likes to see and be seen.

I smell him before I see him again. His aroma of stale leather and scented oil dabbed over body odor wafts past the partition. Joe is a lollipop person with a giant head too big for his small body. That and his strange charisma makes him the sort of person they like to put on TV. He rounds his appearance out with big eyes, a pointed Bob Hope nose and sharp jagged teeth like he's got a splash of dog in his genes. He sits down in the booth and flags the waiter over to order a chai latte. I can't follow the rest of their exchange, but I know there's no chai here.

"Ry, we have a problem."

He's urgent, serious. This isn't Happy Go Lucky Joe. I tense up.

"Hey Joe. What's the matter?"

"I've got Andy in my suite. He's talking nonsense."

"Nonsense like babbling or nonsense like conspiracy theory shit?"

I've seen both out of Andy, so clarification is in order.

"My pilot called me. Andy was at the airport trying to borrow my jet. He's very concerned about the Peruvian population of the American Oystercatcher. He wanted to head over there to investigate the situation."

"Jesus. He needs to dry out for a bit. What did you do?" I ask.

"I looked into the American Oystercatcher of course. If they really were in trouble, I wanted to help Andy out. Turns out they are not threatened at all."

We are interrupted. Our waiter is back with a latte for Joe and the Juntos team. Team is a bit of an exaggeration. There's a small prim blonde woman in a dark brown jacket and a tall slicked hair dude rocking the tight slacks and open collar look.

"Hello. I'm Gabby and this is Carlo."

I reach out to shake hands, but everyone is kissing cheeks. This invasion of space on the first meeting is so foreign to me. I end up kissing Gabby on the side of the head. She's small, it’s a long way down so that's part of the reason, but the rest is that I'm an uptight American. Might as well call it like I see it. We all sit down in the booth. Joe gets up to excuse himself, but I can't do this alone. I was not prepared to lead and could use the support. My hand reaches out, grips him around the wrist. He gets it. Joe does body language well.

"Gabby, Carlo, if you don't mind, I'm going to ask a very happy customer of ours Mr. Deacon Joe to stay and provide a testimonial. You of course know his project, Blockstar. It was only the biggest ICO of the year. Sometimes it helps to hear from a client, especially one who is such a high profile founder." "How nice, and will the infamous Mr. Andy be joining us?" Gabby asks. "Infamous?" I ask.

Has his reputation gotten that bad?

"Perhaps I say that wrong. English is my fourth language."

She laughs, Joe laughs. I join in. An undercurrent of edge cuts it short and leaves us feeling hollow. Something is off here. Maybe they came across Andy earlier. Oh God, help me.

"I'm sorry Gabby, but Andy has come down with a bug. You know how life on the road is." "Of course," she answers.

Carlo has not said a word. He's just staring at me peevish, like I made his sister cry or something. What's with this dude? The vibe is going from bad to worse. In business, we pretend to like people even if we don’t. That’s how you make money. Fuck it, I'm plunging in with the pitch. We need to eat some clock and move this thing along. I do the first five minutes on autopilot. My pitter-patter is going well until it isn't. Shortly after I blather about the integrity of custodial trust Carlo starts to come alive.

"We have banks," he interrupts me. "We do not need you. Banks in Mexico, Colombia, Panama. We are well connected."

"That's good. Not every exchange can meet those requirements or manage the relationships. Especially as they grow, and their risk profile increases. Often exchanges engage with us just to have a fallback solution, a safety net." I counter, trying to act cheery and upbeat.

"You are not so safe. You are playing a dirty game. Shell game, three card Monte."

Who the fuck is this Carlo and why did he schedule a meeting just to shit on us? Maybe Gabby wanted it, maybe I need to shift the focus here. Got to find a friend at the table. Jesus. Andy would have never let the conversation get so dark. American fucking Oystercatchers? That's what's more important to him right now? We need to have a talk about cleaning up. We always said we wouldn’t let the partying affect our business.

"I am sorry Ryan. Carlo here simply has concerns. He is very protective of our money. Hates to see other people with it."

Thank you, Gabby. I will take the lifeline you are throwing me.

"Well, let's talk about auditing. Let's talk about our unparalleled history. No other stablecoin has twenty quarters of audited financials behind it. There simply isn't a better protected solution for cryptocurrency exchanges." I’m trying my best to turn this around.

Gabby opens her mouth. She's ready to return my volley. Let’s get that back and forth so critical to conducting business going. Carlo cuts her off.

"Frankfurt is shit bank. Dirty. You aren't even keeping all your money there. You are moving some into gold.”

How the fuck does Carlo know about our gold play?

He continues, “You don't trust Frankfurt. I don't blame you, but I don't trust you either. Andy is dirty too. He is shit bird. Shit bird with a shit bank. Just a coked-up party boy who can't keep his dick in his pants."

"Whoa." I respond like I’m Keanu Dumbass Reeves.

Deacon Joe seizes on the pause in our conversation. "Carlo, you should be very careful about what you say next. Andy is a dear personal friend of mine."

"If you are a personal friend of that wife fucking homewrecker, then you are a shit bird too."

Oh Jesus, that’s what Andy did wrong. Andy fucked his wife. What the hell happened in Budapest?

Joe grabs Carlo by the earlobe, twists and pulls it hard. My eyes readjust to a second movement. That's when I see the flash of steel. I see a knife, a huge fucking knife, one of the most famous knives in film pressed against Carlo's throat. Holy shit. Joe is carrying the Crocodile Dundee knife. OH FUCK, Joe has pulled the Crocodile Dundee knife on Carlo.

Deacon Joe is dragging Carlo out of the booth now. Carlo's half a foot taller than Joe, but he's now hunched over grimacing. Joe whispers something in his ear. Carlo's face turns white. The knife starts to turn, its sharp edge on his skin. It’s scraping across his chest, shaving thick brown chest hair, leaving behind angry pink splotches. Clumps of hair build on the edge of the knife. Joe pulls back now, he's got crazy eyes, TV madman eyes. He's teaching this big punk a lesson, protecting a wounded friend. Clint Eastwood shit. This shouldn’t happen in real life.

Gabby is scared shitless, and I don’t blame her. I feel her nails digging into my bare arm, scratching me until blood runs down my bicep. Despite the pain, I can't take my eyes off Joe's performance. He lifts the knife, bringing it eye level to him. He is now a barber admiring his work, turning the blade from one side to the other, examining the thick dark curls clinging to the shiny steel. He pulls hard on Carlo’s earlobe, bringing him eye level to the knife. An enormous smile crosses Joe’s lips as he puckers, then blows a kiss across the blade sending the hair flying onto Carlo’s face. The insult, the audacity. Holy fucking shit.

"Get out of here," Joe says.

Carlo is walking away, leaving Gabby in the booth. We are stunned for a moment, then I feel the adrenaline rushing through my cerebral cortex, flooding my spine, opening my lungs. Fight or flight. What the fuck am I going to do with her? How the hell are we supposed to handle this situation? My partner is cracked up in a hotel suite and Deacon Joe just escalated a simple meet and greet into aggravated assault.

The knife slides into a moccasin sheath on Joe's leather pant leg.

"I should get out of here. I'm so sorry Gabby, you shouldn't have witnessed that. For the record, I am a very happy customer of Icarus. They go above and beyond in their service. Never a doubt, better than a bank. You should strongly consider them once Carlo quits," Joe says. "Joe, what the fuck?"

It's all I can muster. I mean the whole thing is so fucked up.

Gabby is crying. Tears ruining her mascara. She backs herself the long way out of the booth, grabs her bag and runs off. I didn’t even give her my card, not that there’s anything to salvage here. "Andy is special. He needs to be protected. At all costs Ryan, at all costs."

Joe pushes the brim of his hat up and leaves through the side entrance. I watch crocodile teeth bob over the frosted glass. The waiter comes over, hands me a couple white cloth napkins for my bleeding arm. I reach into my pocket, remove my wallet, and empty all the euros in it onto the table. "Enough?" I ask.

He nods. I get the fuck out of there. My pant leg is wet. I look down expecting blood all over me. It’s not that. Did I piss myself? No, Gabby spilled her water on me. I need to change and then get out of Spain before Carlo files a police report. Our jet is making its first diamond run from Cyprus to Basel. That means I fly commercial, or I get on with Deacon Joe and Andy. Commercial flights flag passenger info in the system at booking. Private logs passengers at the time of departure. I’ll be out of the country before anyone sees those logs. Looks like it’s more Andy and Joe for me. This day is far from over. We need to talk about knives, drugs, and nesting shorebirds.  

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