In the Company of Wolves: Thinning the Herd

IN THE

COMPANY

OF WOLVES

THINNING THE HERD

JAMES MICHAEL

LARRANAGA

Copyright © 2013 James Michael Larranaga

All rights reserved.

ISBN 10: 1478320419

EAN 13: 9781478320418

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to thank my editors, Amy Farrar, Christopher Noël, and Bob Larranaga, for their advice and suggestions—and Derek Wilson for his amazing artwork. A special thanks to my wife Jennifer, who asked, What happened to that novel you wrote twelve years ago?

Here it is...

Table of Contents

Monday, January 2nd

Tuesday, January 3rd

Wednesday, January 4th

Thursday, January 5th

Friday, January 6th

Saturday, January 7th

Sunday, January 8th

Monday, January 9th

Tuesday, January 10th

Wednesday, January 11th

Minnesota has the highest concentration of wolves of the lower forty-eight states.

Quin had the jitters everyone feels on the first day of a new job. Nervous questions came to mind. Could he handle this job? Would they accept him into their group? He arrived early for his 9:00 a.m. starting time and remained seated in his 1988 Chevy Silverado pickup truck, the engine idling to keep him warm. He checked his look in the rear-view mirror again. He had his corporate game face on: he had shaved, combed his black hair back into a ponytail, and bleached his teeth to a dazzling white. He adjusted his Lorenzo Cana silk tie that he’d bought on eBay and debated whether to keep the earring.

He reached for his phone and sent a text message to his girlfriend Zoe.

Earring or no earring?

He waited for her reply as he looked at his GPS watch and heart rate monitor. It was 8:44 a.m., and his pulse was hammering at 105 beats per minute.

Wear the earring. Good luck! Zoe texted back.

Quin stepped out of his rusted truck onto hard-packed snow, slamming the door so hard that he startled two ravens in the trees. The birds took flight above him, squawking as they landed on the branch of an oak.

He glanced up at the ravens. One squawked at him, flapping its wings in the cold wind. How long had they been watching him here?

Quin reached into his coat pocket and removed a sheet of paper with the office address. He’d heard about this place from his grandfather. This section of Lake Minnetonka had been spiritual ground for Native Americans like the Sioux. But now from the way it looked to Quin, it was a sanctuary for rich white folk.

The home office of Safe Haven LLC was more home than office. He saw no corporate buildings at the end of the cul-de-sac, just a few mansions and villas nestled along a dead-end lane near a frozen body of water. The home before him, the place that was supposed to be his new office, was an Italian villa with ornate bars over the windows and a red clay tile roof. The landscape had tall pine trees that were hunched over from the heavy snow on their branches. A Georgian colonial with white pillars stood across the road, and beyond it was a Cape Cod mansion with artificially weathered cedar shakes.

Quin walked the icy sidewalk, bits of rock salt crunching under his suede shoes. Tucking his ponytail under his collar, he watched both ravens float and land on the mansion’s tile roof, looking for a better view of the outsider. He stopped when he noticed a man rounding the corner of the mansion with a shotgun in his hand.

Yes? the man asked, loading the shells.

Quin waved the company letterhead, feeling confused and nervous. He did not like shotgun greetings. Uh, is this 607 Lake Drive?

The old man had a rosy, wind-burned complexion and thick dark hair that hardly moved in the wind. It is. And you are…?

Quin Lighthorn. I’m the intern you hired, he said, holding the sheet of paper higher, knowing the man could not read the acceptance letter from this distance across the knee-deep drifts of snow.

The man played with the safety on the gun, snapping it on and off.

I thought we called that off, son.

Don’t think so, Quin said, watching the man’s gloved trigger finger. I spoke with Ben Moretti. He said to begin work here January second.

The man squinted. Oh, you’re the Indian?

Quin wasn’t surprised by the question, and he’d expected some reaction to his ponytail and feathered earring. He offered a polite smile. Yeah, Dakota Sioux. He could see disdain on the man’s face.

The man sighed and stepped through the snow with his gun held high, as if he were wading through a deep river. Follow me then, he said, setting the gun on the front step of the house.

He punched a code on a keypad next to the large black door and let Quin in behind him. Neither of them spoke a word as they stomped snow from their feet onto a large rug that matched the Italian decor. Quin took quick mental pictures of his surroundings. The interior reminded him of a hotel lobby with panoramic views of the lake behind a pinewood reception desk. He smelled leather and heard the gentle splashing of water from a Zen wall fountain down the hallway. The interior was definitely feng shui.

Not bad. These people know how to make money.

Quin followed as the man stalked down a dark, wide corridor. I wasn’t notified you were coming, the man said. We talked about hiring a new intern, but I thought we had voted it down. No offense.

That’s all right, Quin said, brushing it off. He could hardly keep up with the old executive moving ahead of him. I didn’t get your name.

Harold Reiker, he said.

I guess you manage all the ammunition, Quin wiscracked.

I handle a lot of things around here, whatever it takes to make the firm a success, he said without acknowledging the joke.

Harold waved, pointing out details of the office layout as if he were a tour guide. Down this hall is where the actuaries work, he said, increasing his pace. You won’t spend much time with them, not as a sales assistant. How long you working here?

Just the winter semester, Quin answered.

You seem older than most college interns, Harold said. "

I’m twenty-four. I’ve been working and going to school part-time." Quin looked into an office. An elderly woman was busy tapping on a calculator and spinning a pencil through her silver hair. He noticed that behind her, through barred windows, was another magnificent view of the lake, which she was too preoccupied to notice.

Lighthorn! You have to walk a hell of a lot faster than that, Harold barked, yanking on his coat sleeve to read his watch. We move quickly around here, and you will too. Got it?

Quin jogged down the hallway, closing the gap. He felt embarrassed. He didn’t want to look lazy in front of one of his new coworkers. This is quite an office.

The previous owner renovated the house, Harold said in his tour-guide voice. He was an employee of Tom Petters, the entrepreneur who created the $3.6 billion Ponzi scheme. They’re all in prison now.

How big is this place?

We got twelve thousand square feet here. It has four fireplaces, eight bathrooms, two kitchens, and a carriage house for ten automobiles. You’ll have to park outside, Harold said. If you like the mansion, you can thank the sales department. They convinced the home office of Indiretta Life Insurance that the only way they’d sell for them is if they could have the best offices in Minneapolis.

I’d say they negotiated pretty well, Quin commented, as he followed Harold into another reception foyer backed by a two-story wall of arched windows facing the lake. This was the only set of windows he had noticed that didn’t have bars on them.

Of course they negotiated it well; they’re sales people, Harold said. Come on, I’ll show you their office.

Beyond the windows, a snowmobile dragged a sled across the frozen lake, passing a makeshift village of ice fishing houses. The snowmobile kicked up a spray of white that filled the sky like puffs of powdered sugar. Resuming his jog, Quin smiled at a receptionist who was answering the phone as he passed. She was homely with short-cropped red hair and a thick figure.

A thin woman with short brown hair stood at the reception desk with another executive. The woman’s haircut was so short Quin wondered if maybe she had cancer. When she turned, she bumped into him.

Oh, excuse me, she said, smiling with full, ripe lips. She dropped an envelope, spilling papers. Quin and the other executive bent down on their knees to help her pick them up.

I got it, the executive said with a threatening nudge. 

Quin stood up, brushing his pants. Awkward silence hung in the air.

Hi, I’m Quin Lighthorn, he said, admiring her brown eyes. Her long red coat matched the color of her lips.

Hello, Rebecca Baron. Do you work here?

It’s my first day, he said, watching the executive on the floor shuffling and organizing her papers.

Quin is our new intern, Harold said, clarifying Quin’s unimportant role.

The executive stood tall, but he was the shortest one in the group. Another intern?

Harold nodded. Ben hired him.

I’m Christopher Gartner, he said, offering a sweaty handshake. I like my coffee with cream.

Everyone gave a polite chuckle, which Quin thought was worse than the awkward silence.

Good luck on your first day. Maybe we’ll meet again, Rebecca said with a smile toward Quin. Christopher escorted her to the door. Her boots echoed on the marble floor.

Who is she? Quin asked.

She’s Christopher’s prospective client. She could be worth a lot of money to our firm. Stay away from her, Harold said.

They continued to an ornate door around the corner. This is the only way into the sales department. He ran a plastic card through a slot on the wall. This will be your pass to get in. If you lose it or if it’s damaged, come see me and I’ll make you a new one. It’s not acceptable to use somebody else’s pass.

Quin took the card and slipped it into his leather wallet before entering the sales office of Safe Haven. His first-day jitters resurfaced. Was he up to it? Could he really do this job? After three steps into the sales department, he caught a whiff of clashing colognes—or maybe it was testosterone.

In the center of the room stood five cherrywood desks with matching credenzas and black leather chairs. The men seated at the desks wore telephone headsets and talked in hushed tones while typing on their keyboards. Their computers were mounted inside their desks under plate glass, which saved precious room and avoided cluttered desktops. To the right, along the wall, five tall antique armoires loomed. Quin could see a shotgun hanging from its leather bag inside one of the armoires.

We have a couple of rules here, Harold said. No wasting time on Facebook.

Not a problem. What’s the other rule?

Keep personal calls to a minimum. Limit your texting or sexting.

Quin laughed. Has that really been a problem?

It was for our last intern, Harold said with sigh. Give me your phone.

Quin hesitated but removed his phone from his pants pocket. What’s wrong?

Nothing, Harold said. Unlock it.

Quin unlocked his phone and handed it to Harold.

I’m giving you access to the company e-mail. Don’t use it for your personal pleasure. We archive everything you send through the company e-mail.

Harold scrolled through the phone with ease. Quin thought he might actually be searching for passwords and other personal information.

You have a girlfriend? Harold asked.

That was a tough one to answer. Quin was dating several girls on campus but wasn’t sure if any of them were worthy of an in a relationship status on Facebook.

Yeah.

Just one girlfriend? Lots of pictures of young coeds on your phone, he said, handing it back. Welcome to the sales department.

The sales department’s curved walls were like the inside of a castle’s turret. A series of bookshelves framed the walls. It was a virtual shrine to business gurus, including Harvey Mackay, Dale Carnegie, and Napoleon Hill.

Think and Grow Rich must be their mantra.

This room is amazing, he said, looking up at the skylight. One of the ravens he had met earlier hopped across the domed window, looking down at them.

Glad you like it, Harold said. These men put in long hours. They’ll work you to death, he said without a trace of humor.

We’ll see about that. In Quin’s mind, there was no doubt: he was up to the challenge.

I’ll stop by later this week after we’ve completed your background check, Harold said.

A background check for a sales internship? Quin asked. When I interviewed over the phone, Ben never mentioned a background check.

Ben’s the boss and sometimes bends the rules, but I enforce them, Harold said, smoothing back his thick hair. His windburned cheeks were red and blue, with fuzzy stubble covering them. That’s Ben over there.

He turned and left, quickening his gait, his boots squeaking on the marble floor.

Quin watched a tall man with wide shoulders cross the room boldly in a way that left no doubt about his role in the office.

We’re making sales calls, Ben said under his breath. He wore his black hair combed back, heavy with gel. I’ve got the men on the autodialer, and we’re scoring a lot of contacts this morning. You’re Quin?

That’s right. Quin shook Ben’s thick hand and felt a large pinky ring.

The man had a groomed, prep-boy air of confidence. He couldn’t have been more than thirty years old, but he dressed as if he had years of success. He sported a black, double-breasted Armani suit, white shirt, and full Windsor knot on his power-red tie. Quin knew this because Ben had instructed him during the phone interview about the appropriate office attire at Safe Haven LLC. Dressing for success had already cost Quin $900.

Ben offered a forced grin, looking Quin over. What do you prefer? Is ‘Quin’ short for something?

Just Quin.

I’m Ben Moretti, the Rainmaker, he said. Oh, is Rainmaker a racial slur? I didn’t mean to offend your Indian heritage, or are you First Nation? I never know anymore.

Ben had touched on a sensitive topic among many tribes. First Nation was a white man’s politically correct label meant to whitewash a history of guilt and pain.

I consider myself Indian, Quin said. And anyone who is good at sales can wear the title of Rainmaker. I’m not offended by it.

Ben grinned. Great! Welcome to the club. You’ll be the sales assistant for the entire department, and you’ll report directly to me. I’m glad you could start on such short notice. We really need an assistant around here. This office is very busy.

Quin surveyed the room again, watching the men working the phones, and he thought back on his phone interview last week. He had pushed hard. Thanks for giving me this opportunity. I know you probably think I’m an impatient— 

Do you know how lucky you are to be working with Ben Moretti? his new boss asked, as if he were a franchise or an institution. Out of the fifty resumes the home office sent me, you’re the only person I considered. Ben removed a sheet of wrinkled paper from his pocket. You know why? 

Quin wasn’t sure if this was a trick question. No, why? 

You’re the only applicant who actually called me and asked for the job. I admire a man who can pick up the phone and make things happen. You can never be too impatient for me, he said. You live on a reservation, right?

Quin hadn’t mentioned that in the interview. Why was it relevant? He wondered if Harold had already followed up on his references. How did you get that information?

Ben pointed to his sheet of paper. Our preliminary background check shows you’re also employed as a part-time park ranger for the Department of Natural Resources.

I need money for college, he said.

Ben pointed at the paper curiously. And you work for the DNR studying wild animals.

These guys were good. They’d already checked him out, and Quin wondered how far Harold’s background check would go. Wolves, he said. I track wolves along the Canadian border up in the Boundary Waters.

I like wolves because they’re real hunters—killing machines, actually, Ben said. And they have a natural pack hierarchy, right?

Correct. Every wolf pack has a dominant alpha wolf, and the lowest-ranking would be the omega wolf. We sometimes name them in our research to make them easier to identify out in the field.

I would be the alpha wolf around here, Ben said, crossing his arms. What name would you give me?

Quin looked him over. Based on physical characteristics, I guess I’d name you Big Ben.

Ha! Don’t let my big frame fool you, Ben said. I was a champion lightweight in the Harvard Boxing Club. I’ve gained a few pounds since then, but I’m still quick.

Ben threw a mock punch with his left fist. Quin caught it with one hand and spun him around.

Whoa, fast reflexes! Ben said, squirming. Damn, where did you learn that?

School of hard knocks, Quin said, easing his grip. He made a mental note that Big Ben was a left-hander, a southpaw.

We’ll go to the gym some day over lunch and spar, Big Ben said. And don’t get too familiar with names. I’m Ben, not Big Ben.

Quin nodded politely. No matter what he’d call Ben publicly, he’d always think of him as the alpha—Big Ben.

The security code for the department beeped, and Quin and Big Ben watched Christopher Gartner stroll to his desk. 

If I’m the alpha around here, Big Ben whispered, then there’s your omega, Christopher. He’s new here. I hired him from a competitor, and he really hasn’t fit in yet. He’s sort of a stray dog, if you know what I mean.

Quin had already felt the pack ranking in the lobby when Christopher barked out his coffee preferences in front of the prospective client. He felt empathy for omega wolves because there were times on the reservation that he too felt like an outsider. He thought he’d give the stray dog a chance before labeling him the omega.

How come Harold is doing a background check on me? Quin asked.

All of us here have access to our clients’ PHI—private health information. We also know their complete financial history, he said. So it’s important that we run a background check on anyone like you who might have access to those files. Besides, sometimes our past catches up with us, Quin. I want to know what to expect should your past catch up with you.

But I’m only an intern, right?

Our last intern left us without any notice, Big Ben said. About a week ago, she stopped showing up for work. We could’ve avoided that inconvenience by thoroughly researching her work history.

Quin wasn’t sure if he should ask the obvious question. What happened? Did she take another internship?

She and her boyfriend eloped. She always talked about marriage, he said with a shrug. "Anyway, I’m without an assistant, and that’s where you come in, Quin. I’ll pay you $3,500 for a three-month internship. If things work out, we might even hire you when you graduate.

You’d make a starting salary of $45,000, plus health benefits and three weeks of paid vacation. You’d also have free access to the mansion, the company snowmobiles, and the boat in the summer. Oh, and one more very important thing: if you prove that you have the knack for our business, you’ll earn a commission on any deal you close. Questions? 

Quin calculated the perks in his head. He liked the office, and the pay and benefits far exceeded his expectations. Who wouldn’t accept a job like this? But there was one small detail buzzing around in the back of his mind.

Are we selling individual life insurance policies or group insurance? Quin asked.

"We don’t sell life insurance policies, Big Ben said. We buy them. Did you meet Rebecca Baron in the lobby?"

Quin remembered the woman he’d bumped into at the front desk. Yes, she seems nice.

And she’s dying, Big Ben said with no emotion. She’s planning to sell us her life insurance policy. It will be a great investment for our firm.

Quin struggled with the business model. How do you make money buying life insurance?

I’ll explain it to you while we set up a meeting with our client Munroe Pilson, Big Ben said, staring across the room at his employees. He then turned his attention to Quin. Hey, do you like guns?

Behind the Safe Haven mansion, a long veranda extended across the width of the house, offering a view to the lake carved out of the wooded lot. Quin stood outside in the cold wind, holding Big Ben’s shotgun, shaking his head. How many employers take their new employees out back for shooting practice on their first day? This must be illegal, especially in an exclusive neighborhood like this one. Somebody could get hurt.

Pull! Quin shouted, leaning the butt of the twenty-eight-gauge shotgun into his left shoulder and squeezing the trigger. The clay target, rising low and from the right, shattered into orange dust.

Damn you’re good, his new boss said, launching three more orange disks. Try again.

Quin tracked the targets through the gunsight and shot each of them out of the sky as Big Ben cheered. For Quin, a hunter, shooting trap was easy.

Amazing. That’s twenty-four in a row, Big Ben said, walking up a path carved in the snow.

It was an odd feeling for Quin to shoot a gun within city limits, just off a public lake. He had shot beer cans back home on the reservation, but this was the suburbs, where you couldn’t even play loud music.

You sure it’s legal to shoot in the yard here?

Don’t worry, Big Ben said, waving. I called the neighbors and warned them yesterday that it might get loud around here today.

The neighbors had nothing to worry about. Quin was concerned about the people ice fishing on the lake.

Where did you learn to shoot like that? Big Ben asked. I grew up on the rez, remember? He handed the gun to his new boss. Quin liked hunting, and he’d mentioned that on his resume. You set this up for a client?

Like I told you earlier, I have a very important client arriving this morning, Big Ben said, loading new shells into the shotgun. This is for the client. Munroe Pilson likes to shoot, so I set this up for him. I bought him a Glock thirty-five handgun as a Christmas gift. I asked him to bring it with him.

Big Ben leaned into his gun and began aiming up at the trees along the lake’s shoreline. He tracked a squirrel jumping from branch to branch.

Seems like a lot of work, Quin said, watching him aim. You do this kind of thing for all your clients?

If they like golf, then I take them golfing. If they prefer tennis, we play tennis, and if they’d rather shoot trap in the middle of winter, then that’s what we do.

Big Ben aimed the shotgun. Watch this.

The instant the gun went off, the squirrel flinched and dropped from the canopy of trees onto the ice below. The gun’s blast echoed across the lake as two ravens flew overhead. They landed on the ice and inspected the fresh kill.

I never miss, he said, setting the gun down.

Nice shot, Quin thought. Big Ben knew how to handle a gun, and his aim was dead on.

Munroe will be here any minute, his boss said, cradling the gun as if it warmed his gloves. I want you to load the traps. I’ll reload the guns.

Quin felt a subtle change in the man’s mood. Big Ben became hyper-focused on the business task ahead of them.

"Remember, Quin, we are not selling anything. ‘Selling’ is a four-letter word to these clients. We are ‘settling’…’settling’ is the word, Big Ben said, reloading the guns quickly. We’re in the business of viatical settlements. Clients like Pilson already have life insurance contracts. The only difference is, these clients are terminally ill, and they’re willing to cash in their policies now so they can have access to the death benefits while they’re alive. Make sense?"

Big Ben described the intricacies of the job while they were shooting. He explained to Quin how in recent years, insurance companies had received pressure from people who wanted to cash in their insurance policies while they were living. AIDS patients, cancer patients, and others had created an opportunity for insurance companies to pay death benefits early but at steep discounts from the original face value.

Big Ben’s company, Safe Haven LLC, offered settlement deals for any dying person regardless of which life insurance company the policy was with, but he preferred to work with clients of the home office, Indiretta Life.

How much will Mr. Pilson get for his policy? Quin asked. He tried memorizing the figures so he could record them later and learn more about the industry in his free time.

He’s got a death benefit of $500,000 with our home office, Indiretta. If he worked directly with them, they’d pay him seventy percent, or roughly $350,000. But six months ago Pilson agreed to work with Safe Haven because we offered him a higher rate.

You compete against the home office?

Not really. My company focuses on smaller clients, the ones who need more attention and hand-holding. We build a portfolio of smaller policies, and our home office focuses on bigger policies. My job is to find outside investors who will come up with the cash to pay Mr. Pilson. So we make the monthly premium payments, and in return, Pilson makes my group of investors the beneficiaries of his policy.

"And the investors’ profit is the difference between the policy face amount and the discounted amount they paid for it after a client