Death of a Bankster

by David Bishop

  Bam!

  What was that?

  The ride of her Mercedes suddenly turned lumpy.

  Damn. I don’t need this. Not today.

  After slamming the palm of her hand on the steering wheel, she eased her two-door Mercedes SLK to the side of the road. The ride turned rough, crunching through the snap-crackle-pop of the upper-desert gravel until she had stopped on the shoulder. After leaving the attorney’s office, she had fought her impulse to cry. She now surrendered, bawling openly, without reservation.

  Sixteen years, sixteen God-damn wasted years. I’m back starting over. Only now I’m a forty-two year old woman surrendering to an invading horde of wrinkles.

  She put her hand over her eyes and slumped in the seat, her eyes and nose each racing to out produce the other. She pulled a tissue free from the box in the console. Then she heard a sharp, unfamiliar sound.

  Rap. Rap.

  Startled, she looked over to see a man standing beside her car, a man she didn’t know. He had apparently rapped his knuckles on her driver’s side window. The sound had been more a thud than a knock. Before rolling down the window, she held the tissue against her cheek on his side.

  “I see you have a flat?” he said.

  “And I should be impressed with your knowledge of the obvious?”

  “Can I help?” he asked, ignoring her smart mouth.

  “I was about to call a tow. They will take care of it.”

  He extended his hand toward her; he held a handkerchief. She guessed him to be a little younger than Sam, but a more solid man. He wore black slacks and a camel hair sports coat. His tie knotted firmly against a light-blue buttoned collar that hugged his trim neck; the shirt fit him well.

  Do men still carry handkerchiefs?

  He smiled. “I can have it fixed for you before the tow truck gets here. I assume your spare is in the trunk?”

  “It’s not my spare, it’s the car’s spare.”

  “I stand corrected. If you’ll pop the trunk.”

  “Listen. I’m sorry. … You’re being quite chivalrous and you don’t deserve my petulant attitude. Thank you, but, really, you don’t need to. You’ll get sweaty and you’ll … you’ll get dirty.”

  “If you’ll pop the trunk,” he repeated. “I used to do this part time in my college days. It’ll be nostalgic. I was the fastest changer at the station. By the time you wipe your eyes and smooth your feathers, I’ll have you back on the road. Long before the tow truck could arrive.”

  Paige touched the pads of her middle fingers to the tears on her cheeks below her eyes, taking care not to smudge her eyeliner. She smiled and popped her trunk.

  “Put on your emergency brake.” She did. “I’ll take it from here.”

  She changed the angle on the rearview mirror. Then she pulled free more facial tissues using them to gently blot her eyes. After that she alternated her looks between the rearview and sideview mirrors, watching her Good Samaritan. He had taken off his jacket and laid it over the sill of his open driver’s window, loosened his collar button and tie, and rolled up his blue shirt sleeves. His forearms were well muscled and tan. A loose, slightly curled strand of dark hair, she couldn’t be sure brown or black, slid down onto his forehead already moistened by the April Arizona sun. The hair over his ears was dusted with gray, much like ash coating the embers of a late fire.

  “All done,” he said about five minutes later. “You’re good to go.”

  “How can I thank you. Can I pay you?”

  “Certainly not. Helping a damsel in distress is good for a man’s ego. I thank you for giving me the opportunity.”

  “I should do something.”

  “Do you have far to go? You’ll be driving without a spare.”

  “I’m headed home. It’s not more than, oh, three miles.”

  “I’ll follow you. Make sure you get there without another blowout.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.” Paige reached for the window remote in the control panel of the driver’s door. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I thought you wanted to show your appreciation?” he said though a rapidly closing window.

  “I do,” Paige said, removing her finger from the panel button. The grip of her other hand tightened on the steering wheel. “Just what do you have in mind?”

  “A cup of coffee. A chance to learn a bit more about the damsel I saved from the fire-breathing dragon.”

  They laughed. Then Paige said, “Do you know your mouth goes crooked when you smile?”

  “No I didn’t. What do you mean?”

  “Your lips sort of tug toward one side.”

  “I’ll have to work on that.”

  “Don’t. It’s cute.”

  “Then I’ll leave it alone, but you’ll never know if you make me drive out of your life … Coffee?”

  “Okay … coffee.”

  He turned and headed back to his Lexus. She called out. He returned to her window.

  “Ah. I don’t know your name?”

  “Ryan.”

  “I’m Paige. Okay, Ryan. Follow me.”

  * * *

  “Do you like cream in your coffee?” Paige asked Ryan who sat on one of the bar stools facing into her kitchen. “Sugar?”

  “A little cream, if you have it.”

  “I have Hazelnut creamer,” she said.

  “A splash.”

  She sat his cup down, staying on her side of the counter near the sink.

  “You have a lovely home. May I say it confirms you’re married. But I don’t see any pictures of children? … Sorry, I can be nosey at times.”

  “That’s all right. Yes, I’m … married.”

  “You hesitated. That’s usually something people know right off.”

  She laughed softly. “We have no children. We’ve spoken of adopting, but … no. No children.”

  “Your husband is a lucky man. You are a lovely woman with a great smile, nice eyes, even when they’re a little puffy.” Paige blushed and looked down. Ryan continued, “Well, I guess I should be going. Thank you for the coffee.”

  “You certainly give up easily.”

  “You did say you were married.”

  “I’m divorcing my husband,” she said, looking inside the dark, warm cup circled by the fingers of her hands. It had been the first time she had said it aloud. That made it sound definite, somehow, when it wasn’t, at least not totally. She saw this weekend as when she would retreat from the idea or cross the point of no return.

  “The reason for your uncertainty? When I asked if you were married.”

  She sipped, “Yes. I guess I’ve been saying I’m married for so long that it felt odd to say, even think, otherwise, at least aloud.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I hope it isn’t anything serious? I mean, divorce is always serious. Sometimes it’s best to talk about it. Sometimes the talk is easier and more private when it’s with a stranger.”

  “My husband is cheating on me. There’s not much more that can be said. I don’t know what to do. Not sure anyway. My mother says to just forget about it. Boys will be boys, she says. As it turns out, my father cheated on her. She stayed with him, but ended up seeing a shrink. She denies that’s why, but I’m certain it was.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry, Paige, I just sensed you were troubled by more than a flat tire.”

  “You got that right. A flat tire is no reason to cry. A few unladylike curses maybe, but not cry. I guess it all just kind of piled on at once. I had just finished meeting with my attorney. The first meeting. … Maybe later we could … I mean—”

  “I would like that, Paige. What’s your maiden name? I assume you’ll start using it again … afterwards. Seeing you have no children.”

  “I’m not far enough along to have thought about all that. I guess I will. It’s Davis; Paige Davis. Oh, my married name is Crawford; Paige Crawford.”

  “Well, I should be going, Paige.” They shook hands, both holding the grip for a long moment, smiling. “
Until we meet again,” he said. Then added, “So I won’t rush you, here’s my card. The next contact is up to you. Agreed?” She nodded, smiled and looked down at a nice card that read Ryan Testler, with a phone number, nothing else.

  When Ryan got near the door, he turned and walked back slowly. He stopped close. Paige did not move back. He hugged her gently, his hands remaining on her shoulders which he held firmly, but not too much so.

  They shared another smile. She looked away.

  “You’ve got my card,” he said. “It’s your call. I’ll be waiting.”

  * * *

  Paige sat alone, nursing a refilled cup of coffee. Her chance meeting with Ryan had fostered a brief fantasy. She would follow her mother’s advice which she had synthesized into flaunt it and give Sam more sex than he could handle. In other words, wear him out. Find out. She would be the only woman in his life, or he would be out of her life, and she would start anew. Ryan had helped her realize she still had it, could still draw the attention of an attractive man.

  She called her neighbor, Carla, who agreed to meet up at the mall after she got off at the hospital. Carla, a divorced registered nurse, loved sexy lingerie and often came over to model the latest addition to her collection. She would be a perfect mate for today’s shopping. At least once a week, or so it seemed, Carla bragged about having sex with one doctor or another. She was divorced from doctor-husband one and actively shopping for doctor-husband two. While in between doctors, Carla had an ex-Marine hunk. From the way Carla described her adventures, she gave away tasty samples like vendors do in the aisles of the Costco store in Peoria. Still, Paige considered Carla a good friend, sexy and fun loving with a bawdy sense of humor.

  Yes. My marriage deserves one more try. Maybe Sam will stop screwing around once he knows I know. And, maybe I could have been a bit more accommodating of his tastes. He really is an excellent provider. And I really do have a wild side which I’ve kept bottled up these last years. A little role playing might be fun. God knows we haven’t laughed much in years.

  Chapter 3

  “Ryan Testler, reporting on a secure line. I’ve extracted all he has to give. The bank is involved and it appears his only accomplice is the bank president, his immediate boss. He’s been called to his bank’s parent company headquartered in Los Angeles. He’s a bit nervous about that, worried. He’s there now. He thinks they know he’s talking with me, well, with somebody. … What? Oh, maybe. We’ll know soon. In any event, he only knows so much. His boss set it up. Sam Crawford gets paid big bucks for essentially being the fall guy, for insulating his boss from accountability to the banking regulators. How much his parent company knows, I don’t know. Sam doesn’t know. It’s time I move up the ladder. I’ll report again at my next scheduled time. Another small point which may be useful: his wife is beginning divorce proceedings. What? … No, she isn’t involved in their shenanigans.”

  * * *

  By twenty after eight, Paige had twice put on and twice taken off her new sexy flesh-tone bustier with black ribbing that she had bought while shopping with Carla. She wondered what the significance might be that the colors in her new lingerie matched the colors in the outfit Ryan Testler had worn while changing her tire.

  She had never worn anything quite this daring. She’d seen the secretaries in the executive offices at Sam’s bank wear tops to the office which revealed nearly as much of their breasts. Of course, the secretaries didn’t also wear platform heels and thongs, both of which would be part of Paige’s outfit tonight. Then again, now that she thought about it, she had seen the secretaries wear platform heels. As for the thong, she seldom saw panty lines on their backsides so maybe they wore those too. Their butts seemed to move very freely when they walked.

  The hell with those bimbos. After tonight, Sam will be rushing home to me.

  The bustier really plumped Paige up, made her look bigger and she wasn’t small to begin with. Her black thong and thigh-high nylons matched the ribbing in the bustier. The red platform shoes she wouldn’t have bought without Carla’s encouragement added a touch of boldness. Carla had called them, come-fuck-me shoes. The lady in the lingerie shop had said the bustier made her breasts rise like the tops of hot muffins. Paige turned and looked at herself in the mirror from the side. Yeah, muffins, two big muffins, served with perfume not butter.

  Come and get it.

  * * *

  Sam always called from the airport when he landed, before going to baggage to get his luggage. He flew a lot. The bank he worked for was located in downtown Phoenix, but the bank’s parent, a non-bank holding company, was headquartered in Los Angeles, a short flight away. The president of the bank let Sam work out of wherever he wanted. Sam was the bank’s front man. He hand-carried funds to the bank and authorized the deposits into the appropriate accounts, and also hand-carried withdrawals to be delivered to certain individuals and organization in various major cities throughout America, a few in Canada. In the aggregate, these banking relationships accounted for millions in foreign deposits on which the bank didn’t need to pay interest. For a banker, this was Valhalla, funds which could be employed to generate handsome profits without having to pay anything for the use of that capital. Not to mention the side fees which were paid directly to Sam and his boss. Sam Crawford’s job boiled down to moving these monies through the banking system in a manner which would avoid detection by the U.S. Government.

  The paper trail for these transactions stopped at Sam Crawford’s desk. If the regulators learned what the bank had been doing, Sam was the lamb who would be led to the slaughter. He took the pieces of silver for being the one with his hind end hanging over that fire. Sam had rationalized that he was entitled to the money. After all, his ass was on the line. He knew that sometimes in these situations, deals could be made if criminal charges came into play. An eventuality Sam seriously doubted would ever come up. The banking regulators, in those rare instances where they learned of such things, could be expected to fine the bank, which would fire the officer, Sam Crawford, while the bank president promised to take appropriate steps to improve checks and balances. The phrase de jour being the one we hear politicians use all the time: take steps to see this never happens again. Oh, sure, not until the next time.

  * * *

  Paige knew Sam’s routine. When he got home, he always went upstairs to unpack his bag and put on some lounging pants. Then he came downstairs for a drink. After that he would tell Paige about his trip, boring details she didn’t care to know. When he got to anything that began to sound interesting he would say something like, “I can’t say more about that.” Then he would have a second drink and watch the evening news. Then they went to bed.

  Funny, how routines and habits take over so much of our lives, allowing us to function at the end of a hard day without a great deal of thought and active decision making. How predictability replaces spontaneity in a marriage. Well, tonight Paige planned to change all that. Tonight she would confront Sam with a smoldering, well-planned attack of spontaneity. Well, spontaneous to Sam anyway.

  After he went downstairs, Paige would take off the robe and trade the slippers in for her new platforms and dab a little perfume on her fun bags, as Sam used to call them. The bar was in full view of the stairs and that’s where he would be making his drink. She would slowly descend the stairs, each step creating jiggles. Then, after her muffins had calmed sufficiently, she would step down to the next landing. Tonight she would bust his routine, no pun intended. Nothing says lovin’ like somethin’ from her oven. Tonight she would leapfrog past the bimbos at the office and change Sam’s thinking. No man wants to continue to play with the second string once he’s been invited onto the varsity—literally.

  * * *

  By eight forty-five, Paige had covered the outfit with an opaque above-the-knee robe and exchanged her red platforms for a pair of house slippers. She wore this muted outfit downstairs to let Carla in the front door. Carla had also bought some new lingerie for herself. They had ag
reed to share a bottle of Riesling and some manchego cheese while Paige waited for her husband to get home.

  “Who was that gorgeous man you had over here this afternoon?” Carla asked as soon as she had closed Paige’s front door. “And bringing him home in broad daylight was a bit bold. Don’t forget nubby-nose Nancy lives across the street. That woman misses nothing, and can’t wait to repeat it, with her own creative flare for embellishments.”

  “Oh, Carla, your mind lives for sex.” Paige said.

  “My body too, don’t cha be forgettin’ my body. I have a wonderful sex life other than the constant challenge to find someone with whom to share it.”

  “What about your boyfriend, the hard-body mercenary. When he’s around I never see you.”

  “I prefer to think of him as an ex-Marine, but I really don’t know what branch he was in. I just dig Marine uniforms so to me, he’s an ex-Marine. Bennie’s a hunk, you’re right about that. But we ain’t all that serious. Not too anyway. I won’t let it happen, serious I mean. Bennie’s a great lay, but he strikes out when it comes to bankable assets. From the way he tells it, he takes one of his merc jobs overseas for some private security firm or foreign gov’mint, and he comes home flush. Then he gambles it away rather than invest it and he’s broke as hell again. He likes living fast and loose. I agree when it comes to ass but not assets.”

  “You are a trip, girl.”

  After they stopped laughing, Paige asked, “Why does he do that? Blow it all, I mean? Not save anything?”

  “That’s just Bennie. He figures he might not come back from one of these trips so for him there’s no rainy day to save for. We have a good time when he’s flush. I understand him. He understands I’m looking for a well-heeled hubby. We’re more about cravings than commitments. Now, enough stalling, let’s see what you’ve got on under there.” She pointed at Paige’s ordinary robe and waggled her fingers. “Show me. Come on. Drop the robe, right on the floor next to your shyness. Give it up, girl.”

  Paige felt a little uncomfortable showing herself to another woman while dressed for sex, but what the heck. She liked the way she looked and a second opinion might further spike her confidence. She stood up, stepped toward Carla and slid the robe off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.