by James Ross
“Of course, with that comes the zoning that you’ll need,” Ficke added.
“Along with a long range comprehensive plan that the city will need to accommodate you on whatever project you want to do,” Mayor Leavitt said.
Harold gazed at the dish in the middle of the table. He reached toward the saucer and then quickly pulled back his hand. “I don’t think that I need one of these right now. It sounds like we have a lot of cooperative minds on the same page today.” As the foursome got up to exit the room Harold grabbed Monty by the elbow. He whispered, “Why don’t you stay for a few more seconds? I need to talk to you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Maurice (Monty) DiMonte relished the thought of being in everyone’s business around town. He had positioned himself to be the right hand man of the local Congressman, Raymond Parsons, as well as an advisor to many of the city attorneys in the various municipalities that thrived on the east side of St. Louis. The fertile hotbed of real estate on the outskirts of those towns was ripe for development and itching for a whore’s touch . . . or a rat’s gnawing teeth.
After a brief stay in a federal pen and disbarment from the state Monty migrated back to life on the streets . . . and survived extremely well in that capacity. He could casually mosey around in jeans, make his connecting phone calls, and drop in to finagle some payoffs from old contacts. His network was vast and meant business. His look and feel seemed to blend in better in the shady environment as opposed to the suit and tie crowd of the politically connected.
Even though he liked to think that he called the shots for the big boys, he really didn’t clean up very well and wasn’t a poster child by any stretch of the imagination. As he had gotten older he much preferred staying in the shadows as opposed to basking in the limelight. Monty’s station in life had been reduced to a behind-the-scenes status and he was comfortable with that . . . as long as the bucks flowed his way.
Monty had the look and temperament of a rat. When he pulled his hair back into a ponytail it magnified his pointed nose and brought awareness to a tiny chin. His elongated face and sunken cheeks brought special attention to his brown, beady eyes. And that look added to his ruthless mindset. He definitely had found a home in southern Illinois where lawlessness seemed to flourish. That environment was like an underground maze of sewers for a character like Monty.
So it wasn’t any surprise to see him pull into the lot of the world headquarters for Fricke’s Salvage Yard. The ground was located at the end of a cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Wiebbey Bottom. Enough of the property was bulldozed so that it wouldn’t flood in times of high water, but a drainage ditch and tree line protected the back edge of the property from anyone that might get the wild idea to try to scam Gary and Larry Fricke. Gary was the older of the two brothers and had the hardened look of a man in his sixties. Even though he was only in his forties he had been running the family junkyard since his dad had dropped over from a heart attack twenty years earlier.
Larry was Gary’s younger brother by two years and had really gotten the short end of the stick in the family gene pool. Because he was the younger runt of the two, he had been nicknamed Frack. His escapades had included run-ins with the law, street brawls, and a mentality that a third grader could surpass. Frack had the scars, flattened nose, and broken teeth to vouch for his life in a world of no discipline.
Together the two of them were street smart and fearless. They had the equipment to come to the aid of a broken down semi-tractor trailer, the heat in the form of a .357 Magnum, and the practical knowledge of turning junked or stolen metal into dollar bills. Over the years Monty had come to rely on them to accomplish the dirty work that needed to be done so that he could continue in the world of affluence.
Gary Fricke was the more business savvy brother. He had the quicker brain and the better looks. But that wasn’t saying a whole lot because his younger brother, Frack, was at the bottom of the totem pole in each category. Gary took care of the money, paid the bills, and made sure that the junk business turned a profit for the family. He was more personable, more persuasive, ethical—if that was possible, and would at least shower once a day. Frack was like a bull charging through the streets of Pamplona and was more interested in showing his muscle in any bargaining session.
Within seconds of stopping his vehicle in front of the gate posted No Trespassing, the brothers emerged on the scene. It was obvious that they wanted to have a tight rein on any intruders that trod on their property. Two barking pit bulls jumped relentlessly against the chain link fence that could barely serve as a barrier to their advances. Even though Monty had become a trusted ally, he was not privy to the goings-on that occurred behind the locked gates of the world headquarters for Fricke’s Salvage Yard.
“Look who’s here,” Frack said to his older brother as they approached the front of Monty’s car. “We’re due for another payday.” His puffy lower lip and hateful snarl intimidated the faint of heart. Dressed in a sleeveless, grease stained t-shirt, black leather pants, and boots fit for a Harley rider, Frack could certainly strike fear into any white-collar worker. His face looked like it had been sideswiped by one too many tire irons. His filthy finger nails suggested that he spent an excessive amount of time greasing fifth wheels.
“Do you have another project for us?” Fricke asked Monty.
“You boys don’t mess around,” Monty grumbled. “It was nice to meet you too.”
“Hey, we know what we’re good for,” Frack admitted. He gave Monty an obligatory snicker.
“And we must do it well for you to come around like you do,” Fricke added.
“To stay a little bit out of the public eye, do you mind if we go upstairs?” Monty suggested.
With a jerk of the head Fricke motioned for Monty to follow him up the exterior stairs that led to the second floor office above the garage of an older two-story, frame home. The incessant barking of the pit bulls cast an eerie pale over the supposed secrecy of the meeting. Once inside, pistons and cylinder blocks as well as carburetors and hubcaps littered the confines. Monty threw aside a pile of mechanic magazines to find a place to sit on the worn-out, black leather couch. Gary Fricke plopped into his wooden desk chair and rolled against the wall to be able to put his feet on the desk. Frack sat on the arm of the couch after throwing a steering wheel into the corner. The blinds were covered with a coating of dust that suggested they hadn’t been opened to shed any light into the room since the Chicago Cubs had won a World Series.
“Whatcha need for us to do?” the older brother started.
Monty handed over a manila envelope. “This is the down payment. The rest will come when the job is complete.”
“The next day?” Frack asked.
“Or soon thereafter,” Monty assured the brothers.
Fricke was busy counting what appeared to be five thousand dollars in cash . . . all in one hundred dollar bills. “Is this half or a third of what we’re gonna get?”
“It’s half. The most important thing is that no one gets hurt,” Monty stressed. “The job happens in the middle of the night. Make it look like an accident.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On the last Thursday in August a local Japanese businessman, Yuuto Chikuda, strolled through the doors of First Cornstalk Bank. During the summer of 2007 he had become a familiar sight to the tellers who saw the customers pass through the lobby, as well as Ricki Sandstoner. Dressed in shiny black, patent leather, platform shoes Mr. Chikuda always was quick with a meek wave and a nod of the head as his buck teeth gleamed across the room. Standing at five foot five with a two-inch boost from the thick soles Mr. Chikuda seemed to wear a perpetual smile. His well-groomed, jet black hair fell limp on his forehead. A thick pair of black-rimmed, square glasses devoured the upper half of his face.
“Aaahhh, oh. Goodday. Mistore Syms please,” Yuuto blurted out politely to Ricki as he nodded forward slightly from the waist. His head bowed toward the ground and as he brought it back up his eyes met the secretary�
�s. He grinned graciously.
“Harold thought that you might be in today,” Ricki replied. “That deal that the two of you have been working on must be coming along real well.”
“Aaahhh, oh, yes,” Yuuto said. “Veddi, veddi, nice.”
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Ricki offered.
“No, no,” Yuuto courteously declined. He brought both of his hands up to the side of his face and shook the palms negatively. Then he nodded in a docile manner. A second later he nodded again. After grinning at Ricki he nodded a third time, speechless.
“Have a seat and I’ll get him for you,” Ricki said as she turned to walk into Harold’s office.
Before Mr. Chikuda’s butt could hit the seat of the leather upholstered chair Harold was out of his office with his hand stretched forward. “Yuuto, good to see you!” He had bonded quite well with the businessman over the last several months. Even though the Japanese-American stood an inch or two higher than Harold, the banker felt at ease talking to someone his own size. “Come on in,” he said as he stretched his arm out for the businessman to enter the private office first.
Neither man had much time for small talk. They knew what the meeting was all about. Several times over the last half year Yuuto had provided stock tips to Harold that had involved a family business in Osaka, Japan. Initially Yuuto had been referred to Harold by a local businessman. He had outlined a plan to invest in the family stock for a brief time and recommended a quick market play to Harold on the Nikkei Exchange. What had started out as a five thousand dollar play had grown into a fifty thousand dollar investment on Harold’s part. The two of them had already made successful trades on four occasions. Usually the dollars didn’t have to be tied up for more than ninety-six hours. Those were the types of deals that Harold liked. He could use the bank’s resources and get in and get out quickly. Yuuto had been right on the mark every time and had provided a quick score as well as an unexpected source of income to Harold.
“Ev’ryting is in ohda,” Yuuto started, a staccato pace to his conversation. He had explained to Harold earlier in the year that the family business was a takeover target. As rumors leaked to the media in Japan the two of them had profited handsomely throughout the spring and early summer.
“For the company to be sold?”
Yuuto nodded. He grinned. “Duh announcement ese expected on Monday,” he said with the Oriental flourish that Harold had grown to admire.
“How much can we gain?” Harold asked. “Is it as much as you thought?” Before Yuuto could answer Harold fired off a third question. “When do they need the money?”
“Eat looks like fohty pehcen’,” Yuuto explained. “But we need ta act fast.”
“I’m ready to wire a quarter of a million,” Harold stated matter-of-factly. He reached for his cup of coffee, took a sip, and grimaced as he swallowed the fluid that had cooled since the late morning fill up.
“You can git dat kind uh money dat qwickly?” Yuuto questioned.
Harold looked at the Japanese businessman in amazement. “Hell, I own a bank!” He did not intend on siphoning off the reserves of First Cornstalk or hitting the vault. That would really be foolish. Harold had been preparing for this day. It was his thinking that he would push the envelope with a scheme that he thought was foolproof. He was planning on forging a wire transfer authorization form from the account of Mrs. Richard Harris. In hindsight that would be something equally as silly. But his greed had consumed him.
Mrs. Harris was a wealthy widow who didn’t pay too much attention to her account. Harold’s intent was to wire the money from Mrs. Harris’ bank account to the warehouse account that Yuuto had established with the brokerage firm in Japan. After the score on the stock trade the money would be wired back to the bank and placed into Mrs. Harris’ account. All the profits would remain in Yuuto’s account. If the widow questioned the transaction he would say that it was a bank error and that maintenance had been performed on her account. Yuuto and Harold would square up later.
“Duh instwuckshuns ah duh same,” Yuuto said. “Just as befo.”
“Okay. I’ll wire the money and your guy over there will make the trade,” Harold confirmed. He was comfortable making the transaction. In his opinion the best thing about it was that he wouldn’t have to use his own money.
After tilting his head forward Yuuto said, “Just like aw-ways.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Sweet chile, I’s did it!” Tuey yelled the moment he entered the front door, his body perspiring from the August heat and humidity.
“I’m afraid ta axt what’s ya do,” LeVournique replied as she moved from her spot at the kitchen sink and entered the front room.
“Den don’t axt me. Jus’ look,” Tuey said as he waved papers in his wife’s face.
“What’s dat ya got dere?”
“Dese are da papers on dat dere land dere dat wuz two blocks down from dat church dere dat D. Wayne wants me ta go ta,” Tuey responded.
“What in heaven’s name are ya gonna ta do wit land down dere?”
“Park my trucks on it!” Tuey yelled, dumbfounded that LeVournique couldn’t figure it out. “We’s gots ta figga out some place ta put dese tings so dat dat Big Bertha will quits writin’ me aw uh dose tickets.”
“And you’s tinks dat buyin’ uh piece uh da land by dat church is gonna solves yo’ problems?”
“I’s sures hopin’ dat it will,” Tuey said. “At least nows I’s can go down ta dat city hall an’ axt dose peoples ta gives me uh permit ta park on dat property an’ tries ta fix da problem dat we’s got ’round here.”
“And what’s makes ya tink dat da peoples down at da city hall is gonna gives you’s dat permit?”
“Cuz I’s tryin’ to fix da problem.” Tuey stated matter-of-factly.
“But you’s sed dat dey’s gots it in fo’ ya,” LeVournique said as she played devil’s advocate with Tuey’s logic.
Tuey shook his head up and down. “Yep, dey sho’ do dat! But I’s figgas dat dis be uh win-win type uh deal fo’ bote uh us.”
“If I wuz you’s den I’s don’t tink dat I’s git my hopes up ta much,” LeVournique persisted.
“Befo’ I’s can buys dat dere property den I’s gots ta git da permit ta use it likes I’s wants ta,” Tuey reasoned.
“How’s ya figga dat you’s gonna git da money ta buy dat dere land?”
“I’s reckon from da banka,” Tuey guessed.
“What banka is dat?”
“It’s uh banka frien’ dat D. Wayne knows.”
LeVournique frowned at her husband and gave him an amazed, disgusted look. “Has you’s awready bin in ta see dis banka?”
“Nah, it’s way ta early fo’ dat,” Tuey explained.
“An’ you’s jus’ tink dat cuz you’s gots da papers signed dat da banka is gonna gives da money ta ya?”
Tuey shook his head up and down. “If I’s gots da permits ta use da land ta parks da trucks on it I’s do.”
“What in heaven’s name da you’s tink dat uh banka is gonna give uh bunch uh money ta uh black man fo’?”
“Cuz it’s land. Dat’s what D. Wayne sed ta me.”
“Tuey O’Tweety!” LeVournique yelled as she turned to go back into the kitchen. “What’s gotten inta ya? Is yo’ mine goin’ crazy? Dere’s ain’t no ways dat uh rich, white banka is gonna gives any money ta uh blaaaaaaack man!” She waved her hand disgustedly at her husband and walked through the door into the kitchen.
Tuey’s emotions told him that he was doing the right thing to fix the problem, but his wife’s arguments doused his hopes. As he reflected on her words a tear rolled down his cheek. “I’s jus’ tryin’ ta fix dis here problem wit’ da city hall, Sweet Chile.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
That Sunday morning Tuey got up and proceeded to get dressed for church. He put on a turquoise suit, camel colored shirt, and white tie. On his feet he wore a pair of patent leather, imitation alligator-skin shoes. He searched the closet f
or his favorite hat and came away with a dark-brown bowler. It had a high, rounded crown and a very slim brim with a white silk band slightly above it. Tuey tossed the hat on top of his head and turned to the nearest mirror to admire his Sunday look. With a broad smile plastered across his face he felt great about the way he intended to walk out the door.
“My, oh my, Tuey O’Tweety! You’s looks like you’s be dipped in da butta sauce. Where’s ya goin’ lookin’ like dat?” LeVournique screamed as she came down the hallway and entered the front room. The gold-plated loops that she had slept in dangled from her ears.
“I’s gonna go ta dat church dat D. Wayne wants me ta go ta,” Tuey answered. “Duz ya wanna come wit’ me?”
“You’s knows dat I’s gotsta go in ta da Aqua Mermaid,” LeVournique replied. “Plus I’s don’ts know abouts dat church down dere dat D. Wayne wants ya ta go ta cuz I’s be happy wit’ da one dat we goes ta now.”
“I’s gonna tries it,” Tuey relented. “D. Wayne sez dat da whole bunch uh dem down dere wills pray fo’ me.”
LeVournique, dressed in her ruby red, crushed-velvet housecoat, reached up and adjusted the knot on Tuey’s tie. “Ya sho’ be one hansum man, Tuey O’Tweety.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
Tuey’s smile, notwithstanding the gaps between his teeth, widened from one side of his hat’s brim to the other. “Ya knows how ta say aw uh dem dere tings dat make uh man happy.” He kissed her on the forehead. “We’s gonna gits dis ta aw work out now, Sweet Chile. Wit’ dis here new land I’s uh buyin’ an’ aw uh dose peoples uh prayin’ fo’ me den you’s knows dat we’s gonna git aw uh dese tickets put behine us.” He turned and headed out the door to his pickup truck.
“You’s knows dat I believes in ya Tuey.”
“Give it sum time Sweet Chile. I’s will git tings taken care of wit’ aw uh dem fokes down dere at da city hall.” He entered his truck and yelled out the passenger window toward his wife. “But in da meantime I’s jus’ tinks it’s uh good idea ta git sum peoples uh prayin’ fo’ us. Lemme work on dat first.”
