Best of all, the weather was hot. Incredibly hot. The Chicago country-music station they stayed tuned to, interrupted its usual programming to report temperatures as high as a hundred and fifteen through much of the area. The police scanner was quiet, reflecting a peaceful countryside. As they were leaving Chicago, everyone synchronized their watches to the beep of the official time announced on the radio.
In spite of the sizzling heat, downtown Brighton wasn’t as deserted as Hadley had anticipated it would be so close to five, but a parking place was still readily available, and the crew settled down to waiting out the next few minutes.
Timing it to perfection, they pushed into the bank. From then on, nothing went right!
A half-dozen customers were in the establishment, along with the regular supply of clerks, tellers and other personnel. Nothing distinguished the bank’s activities from an ordinary day during ordinary business hours. Surprised and frightened faces turned toward the four masked, gun-wielding men. Only Hadley’s quick decision to abort the mission prevented the debacle from becoming a complete disaster.
Piling out of the bank, the four raced to their car and screamed away from the curb, with the bank guard firing shots intended to miss. Within moments, the police scanner had come alive. Roadblocks were being thrown up throughout the county. Hadley’s next decision was the only one possible. The car abandoned, the four took off, each on his own.
***
Safe finally in Chicago, Hadley looked back on the previous day as one of the most harrowing in his life. First, the panic in the bank, then the forced abandonment of the car, a long trek under a blazing sun, followed by the risk of hitchhiking and a night of hiding out from the police, who were scouring the countryside in force. Hadley chalked up his escape to good fortune rather than to ingenuity, and held out little hope any of the others had been as fortunate.
His worst expectations were confirmed when the radio reported the successful rounding up of the trio who, stupidly, had come back together after initially scattering. Hadley knew it was now a matter of hours before one or more of them would pinpoint the Chicago hideout. He was almost to the door when the phone rang.
It was the technician. “What went wrong?” he asked. “All hell broke loose in town around four, so I bugged out. Sounds like some idiots decided to knock over the bank and screwed up, something fierce.”
“Four?”
“Yeah, four. What’s wrong? That’s local time.”
“It couldn’t have been. It was five. I’m absolutely positive. I checked the time on the radio.”
A pause at the other end. “Oh, oh! So you’re the one who screwed up. You must have been listening to an Illinois station. Didn’t you know this part of Indiana never goes on daylight saving time? You and your boys showed up an hour early.”
CHANGING TIMES
It was hard to figure. Seems sometimes like the harder a man works, the less money he makes. Bill McKenzie shook his head at the thought and, as he often had before, decided that’s the way it always was with farming. Even so, as he watched his dairy herd working its way out to the new pasture he’d opened up for them, he knew he wouldn’t be happy doing anything else.
It was then when his hired hand, Baldy Watson, who was leaning on the rail next to him, said, “The problem with you, Bill, is you love those animals out there. A good businessman would think of them just as so many dollars on the hoof.”
McKenzie nodded, taking no offense at the comment, being no longer surprised at Baldy’s uncanny ability to read his mind every so often. “I guess you’re right, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Grinning, he added, “I don’t think you’re much different. You like dairy farming, and I can’t see you behind a desk pushing papers around.” He found it difficult to picture this gentle giant, with hands like hams—who could quiet down the most nervous cow—doing anything else besides working with animals.
McKenzie considered himself fortunate to have found Baldy. Even though once a month or so, the hired hand disappeared for a few days, returning red-eyed, he was otherwise totally reliable. No words passed between them concerning these occasional binges, and McKenzie felt sure the lack of comment was in large measure the reason Baldy stayed on. During Mary McKenzie’s sudden illness, and when she passed away the previous spring, he had been indispensable. No disappearances then. He had simply run the farm as efficiently as his boss during the time of caring for, and later of grieving for, the wife of twenty-two years.
Young Erik Johnson was a different breed, but McKenzie still felt his only other full-time help had been a sound choice. While no farmer, eighteen-year-old Erik was a hard worker, and his boss had soon found out the teenager’s first love was computers. Every moment of Erik’s spare time was spent on the household’s desktop—which McKenzie barely knew how to turn on—and the laptop he’d bought for his wife when she’d become bedridden.
Among the three of them who now virtually lived as a family, and a few seasonal workers, the dairy farm gave every indication of thriving. But, somehow, it didn’t. McKenzie often wondered what was going wrong. Part of it he knew was due to changing consumer habits. His Jerseys were producing the rich milk which had once commanded a premium—but no longer, now consumers had become so concerned about dieting. Today, however, he had heard of a possible answer to his financial problems. Of all people, Bernice Langley of Bernice & Daughters, Inc. had phoned him and proposed a solution.
Probably every adult in the eastern part of the state knew about Bernice & Daughters Ice Cream, and now it was being marketed in major cities all over the country. The reason for the call had been sketchy, but Bernice was looking for special, high-butterfat milk and had heard about McKenzie’s herd. There was a deal in the offing, and she was due by that afternoon to, as she put it, “to talk business.”
Given what might be at stake, he’d decided to look his best: clean coveralls, a hair combing—though its thinning made the effort seem superfluous. He’d toyed with the idea of shaving for a second time, but finally decided there were limits to what he would do to impress even a prospective exclusive buyer for his entire milk production.
Bernice—she insisted immediately on moving along to a first name basis—proved to be a surprise. McKenzie had expected a grim-faced, suit-clad female who oversampled her products. On the contrary, Bernice was slender, smiling, definitely attractive, and dressed in a simple flowered skirt and white blouse. Her sole concession to the stereotype of a businesswoman was a bulky briefcase. He estimated her age as somewhere close to his own, though he had long ago recognized he was no expert in guessing women’s ages. Her handshake was firm, and it soon became obvious—after she had accepted his offer of coffee—that she knew what she was looking for and was ready to move on to a contract at the earliest possible moment.
The offer was everything he could have asked for. Bernice & Daughters was gearing up to launch an expensive new product—one unashamedly decadent. With an emphasis on small packaging and an advertising campaign stressing B & D’s CreamRich was not for everyone, this was due to be a uniquely promoted ice cream indeed. With a laugh, Bernice pulled some proposed advertising copy from her briefcase to emphasize the point, and spread it across the table.
“Buy a quart of regular ice cream and stuff yourself. Buy a pint of CreamRich and really enjoy what you’re eating,” one of the illustrated ads announced. “Premium ice cream made from premium cream, produced by premium cows.” The emphasis was humor, the message: “Small is beautiful.” McKenzie had his doubts, but then he’d shaken his head over the milk-moustache ads. Marketing was her problem, he decided, and she seemed quite capable of handling it.
The downside came as he gave her a guided tour of the premises, and during the conversation which followed. There was no question but she was pleased with what she saw, with the sparklingly clean, stainless-steel milking parlor, the large, immaculate loafing sheds, the peaceful setting of the brown Jerseys grazing in the distance in one of the lower pastures.
But the notes she was taking and the comments she made indicated McKenzie would have to make some changes—expensive ones.
“The milk-cooling system will have to be improved,” she said as she consulted her notes. She went on to add a list of what else had to be done before the contract could be signed. McKenzie listened quietly while doing his best to hide his annoyance. The state inspector had approved his whole operation; why should she insist on anything else? But then, he reasoned, for meeting state standards he was awarded a certificate to pin on the wall; for meeting Bernice’s standards he was going to receive a premium price for his premium milk.
She must have sensed what he was thinking. “I’m not asking these things to be ornery, Bill. The core of our ad campaign is going to be the milk producers. Yours and the other Jersey farms we’ll be buying from will all have to meet the same standards, and they’ll be featured on the CreamRich ice cream containers, themselves. Pictures of milking parlors, prize cows, equipment—everything. Maybe we’ll even have photos of the individual farmers.”
McKenzie guffawed. “My picture will guarantee your ice cream won’t sell.”
She joined in the laugh, protested he was underestimating his looks, then added, “Can you manage the costs of revamping?”
This was something McKenzie had already estimated in his head. Forty thousand should do it, even allowing for unexpected problems. Mel Southwith at the First National would loan him the amount. “No problem,” he said. “I should have all those changes made and be ready to sign on by this time next month.”
Bernice rose, saying, “OK. Let’s make a tentative date. One month from today. I’ll bring my attorney and we’ll meet in your attorney’s office.”
“Attorney? I don’t have any attorney, except maybe Oscar Melville who made out Mary’s and my wills.”
She shook her head. “No way do I sign a contract without you having an attorney. Come on, Bill. These are changing times and you’re going to have to move into the twenty-first century. Whether you like lawyers or not, you can’t do business with just a handshake anymore. If it’s all written down and the experts look it over, which should minimize any misunderstandings. And I most certainly do not want misunderstandings.”
Once the preliminaries were out of the way, they talked about their own families—Mary’s death, Bernice’s divorce, his regret at not having any children, her pride in her two daughters. It was a pleasant hour or so of conversation, and McKenzie wondered why two friendly people needed lawyers to make a simple business agreement.
***
At the mention of a loan, Carter Robinson, the First National Bank manager, had sounded strange over the phone. Having known him for years, McKenzie thought little of it, and said he’d bring in the necessary documents—the last three years of tax filings and an up-to-date report on the current year’s income and expenses. The last item called for a stop at Hubert Mays’ office, the farm’s accountant. Fortunately, both offices were nearby in Turnville, so McKenzie wouldn’t have to be away from the farm for more than an hour or so.
Hubert’s surroundings were impressive, and the accountant himself even more so. Occupying the entire first floor of the brand new building he’d recently had built, and with several receptionists, secretaries and additional accountants and bookkeepers in the various offices and cubicles, Hubert Mays had come a long way up in the world, and in a very short time. Welcoming McKenzie into his own luxurious office, the somewhat overweight but expensively suited Mays, hand on his visitor’s shoulder, ushered him to a large leather office chair.
“Can I get you something to drink, Bill? Oops!” I forgot. You’re a non-drinker. Maybe coffee?” As he spoke, and before McKenzie could answer, Hubert pushed an invisible button hidden among some wooden curlicues on the wall. A section swung open to reveal a well-stocked wet bar. “I’ve got an almost instant espresso brewer here. In the meantime, mind if I start the afternoon off with a drop of something stronger?”
The coffeemaker did indeed produce a nearly immediate brew with minimum intervention. Settling down behind his mahogany desk with his own drink after providing McKenzie with a tiny cup of the steaming beverage, Hubert said, “Now, to business. I got a call from Carter, at the bank, and he filled me in on what he needs in order to consider your loan.” Pulling a manila folder over, he went on, “This should do the trick. A summary of your expenses and income for the year to date. It’s in pretty much the same form as the copies of your IRS returns he said you were bringing in with you.”
McKenzie nodded, at the moment fascinated by Hubert’s carefully-manicured hand and gold-ringed fingers holding his drink, and thinking of the contrast to his own hands, which showed the effects of working on a tractor transmission an hour or so earlier in the day. Life for an accountant was an easy one, and—as McKenzie took in the large, solid desk, the artwork on the walls, the thick rug underfoot and the rest of the lavish surroundings—obviously paid far better than dairy farming.
Finishing his coffee, which he felt was inferior to the brew he produced at home (though he didn’t say so) he excused himself. The bank was the main reason for coming to town, and the sooner he had business out of the way, the sooner he could get back to the surroundings he much preferred.
As he climbed the marble stairs of the bank, McKenzie reflected on how times had changed. The bank building was well over a hundred years old. In sharp contrast to the entrance to the accountant’s luxurious modern building, the steps showed marked signs of wear from a century’s footsteps. Carter Robinson’s office reinforced the disparity with what McKenzie had seen a few moments before. Half the size of Hubert’s, there was none of the lush extravagance of the accountant’s workplace.
Also, unlike the accountant, the banker was an old acquaintance of McKenzie’s, had been in the same high school class, and he and his wife had visited back and forth when Mary was alive. Somehow, though, the atmosphere today was—if not unfriendly—at least distant. There was no question but the banker was uneasy, as he skimmed the documents McKenzie had handed to him.
“Seems like your net is going down every year, Bill.”
“Yeah. That’s why this deal with B&D is so important. Nice to know someone who isn’t turned off by butterfat, these days. If I can make the changes she wants, she’ll buy my total production for the next three years at ten percent over market.”
“Maybe so, but right now your credit is stretched to the limit.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Well, you know the loan we extended to you when you decided to buy the half section from Mantrell?”
McKenzie nodded.
“It means you’ve reached the limit on your security for loans. Now, I know you’ve always paid regular and all that, but the Federal Reserve is breathing down our necks. Too many banks have been going under, so we can’t lend on a signature alone.”
“My cows are worth a lot, Carter. You know that.”
A wry smile was the answer before Carter said, “The bank’s not about to go into the dairy business. We could manage to sell your land if you couldn’t meet your payments, but anything on the hoof is something we don’t want to get into.”
“What this all means is you aren’t going to give me the loan.”
Carter shook his head. “What it really means is we can’t.”
***
The gloom was still hanging over McKenzie’s head as he opened the door to his house and heard the phone ring. “It can’t be worse news,” he thought.
It was.
The local branch of Internal Revenue was notifying him of an impending audit.
***
Hubert didn’t sound disturbed when he heard the news from his client. “Relax, Bill. It’s just routine. They’ll do most of their investigating right here in my office, and everything’s in order. The most they’ll do when they come out to the farm is to check and to make sure you haven’t bought some fancy equipment with cash you squirreled away and didn’t report.”
&
nbsp; The conversation had been reassuring, though McKenzie figured accountants were just accustomed to such visits. He wasn’t, and he expected two hard-nosed, suited investigators who would want to go through his bureau drawers and check under the beds. Mistaken as he had been about Bernice, he was even more so by the IRS couple. The agent in charge was a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman accompanied by a much younger man. Both were dressed in what were hardly city clothes. Levis, wool shirts, boots. “These two know what a farm is like,” he thought as he shook hands.
Hubert’s prediction was essentially correct. After being invited into the kitchen, the young agent broke out his laptop and quickly scanned through some receipts and cancelled checks he’d downloaded from the accountant’s office. Erik was standing by, fascinated by what he was seeing on the screen, with the agent happy to tell him what he was doing. McKenzie and the woman left them to their computer talk while he took her out for a guided tour of the premises.
“I was born and raised on a farm,” she commented as they leaned on the fence watching the cows heading toward the milking parlor for the noon milking. “Dad always had a milker or two and my brother and I took care of them. I get homesick every time I’m around a cow.”
The friendliness prompted McKenzie to ask why he was being audited, and the agent seemed surprised at the question. “Didn’t they tell you when they called? Obviously they didn’t. This has nothing to do with questioning your returns. The Service is trying to establish a baseline for various farm enterprises. Yours was just picked at random. We aren’t doing any probing.” She smiled. “We’re just trying to get some idea of how much a farm this size brings in, what your market is, what kind of expenses you have, and how much it costs to run your operation.”
Expect the Unexpected Page 48
