by James Ross
D. Wayne paused to think. “At least we don’t have to pay taxes.”
“That’s the best way to make money.” Harold grinned. His mind was in overdrive. “Are you still working your second job?”
D. Wayne nodded. He didn’t really understand what his second job had to do with financing for the church. “Yeah. My love in life.” He was a college football referee on weekends during the football season. “Why?”
“A thought flashed over me when you mentioned you don’t pay taxes at the church,” Harold said. He was hard at work trying to figure out a way to get some money back into the account of Mrs. Richard Harris. One of these days the widow might notice something awry. “What do you do with the money you make at that other job?”
“It goes in the bank. I pay estimated taxes if that’s what you’re getting at.” D. Wayne didn’t really understand where the conversation was headed. He wanted to get the church rebuilt.
“I was thinking,” Harold said. He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his seat. “Why don’t I show you a way to get around Uncle Sam with your second job?”
“I know people that work with the IRS. I’m not about to do something stupid,” D. Wayne said adamantly. Thomas Jefferson Booker was a friend and golfing buddy.
“You want some help with the church, don’t you?” Harold asked. D. Wayne nodded his head. “Look, it’s a two-way street. We need to help each other.”
“You’ll make interest off of the loan,” D. Wayne threw out. “Isn’t that help enough?”
“That’s a pittance. It just keeps the salaries paid.” Harold sat back up in his seat. “I’m talking about making some big money.” He paused to let his words sink in. “You know, so that you can get your church built.”
“Where are you headed with all this?”
“I want to see that you get your loan approved.”
D. Wayne reflected. Is this guy shrewd, or what? Is he blackmailing me? What does he want? The thoughts visibly shook D. Wayne. “Do you have anything to drink?”
Harold started laughing. He got up out of his seat and headed for the mini-refrigerator that was located behind one of the doors in his credenza. “What would you like?”
“Any kind of Powerade. I’m not picky.”
“That might be too pure for me. All I have is an assortment of colas.”
“Bottled water then.” D. Wayne was very health conscious.
Harold grabbed the drink and returned to his spot behind the desk. He handed the beverage to his customer. “Do you understand how it all works?” He chuckled at the confused look on D. Wayne’s face.
The black man was stupefied. “Look, all I’m trying to do is find out what we need to do to get the church back up and running.”
“Okay. Fine. Let me spell it out for you then.” Harold treated the client like a misinformed child. He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. “I want you to follow this closely.” He was already three steps ahead of D. Wayne.
“I’ll try.” D. Wayne laughed out loud. “I’ve done well with fishing bait, alcohol, and ammo, but I don’t really know how you bankers make things work.”
“You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.” Harold looked him squarely in the eyes. “If you want the money, then this is the way it’ll have to work.” He started to doodle on the pad. “First off, you need a place to worship, right?”
D. Wayne shook his head up and down. “Right now all we have is a pile of rubble in a parking lot.”
“Okay. I have a building where you can lease some space.” Harold drew a square on the pad. “That can be a temporary spot for you to set up and it helps me get some revenue that I need on a property that is only half full.”
“That’s fine, if we approve of the location.”
Harold gave him a tight lipped grin. “If you want your loan approved, then you’ll approve the location.” He shook his head at the naiveté of the black man. He drew a line on the pad and scribbled. “The next thing we need to do is find another piece of ground for the church to be built on.”
D. Wayne balked. “No, we want to stay where we are.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to loan you the money to put a church on that location,” Harold stated matter-of-factly. “You want the money, don’t you?”
Reluctantly D. Wayne nodded his head affirmatively. “Where will we go?”
“Look, that’s the easy part. We’ll find another piece of dirt for you and your church.” Harold again spoke down to the black man.
“What will we do with the ground that we have?”
Harold was salivating. The new road was coming through that location and he wanted to get his hands on that property. “I’ll buy it.” He doodled some more. “We’ll get you a better spot . . . where the bank feels comfortable to loan . . . and I’ll purchase the site that you have.” He placed his pen down and let the news soak in. “See how simple it is.”
D. Wayne stared at the pad of paper and offered an educated guess. “And while the new place is being built, you’ll help us out by giving us a place to worship.”
“I think you’ve got it,” Harold said sarcastically.
D. Wayne understood. He shook his head in agreement. “Now I see where you were headed with all of this.”
Harold grinned. “But there’s one other thing.” He never lost sight of the fact that he needed to get money into the account of Mrs. Harris.
“What’s that?”
“It gets back to the ‘you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-your-back’ type of thing.” He rubbed his eyebrows, pinched the bridge of his nose, and set his chin on top of the knuckles of his right hand.
D. Wayne was oblivious. “We need the money to start all over.”
“It has to do with your other job.” Harold looked D. Wayne squarely in the eye once again.
“How does that have anything to do with this?”
Harold looked at the jewelry that D. Wayne was wearing. “It looks like you like the extra cash to provide all of the nice trinkets.” He rubbed his finger below his Adam’s apple and adjusted his wristwatch. “You’d love to make some cash over and above what you get paid to do, wouldn’t you?” Harold paused. “It’s kind of like dipping your hands in the register down at the store.” He stopped and let his words soak in. “We all know you pocket some of that. I’m sure that it’s a little secret that you keep from the IRS too.” Harold studied D. Wayne’s reaction. “You know, I have your financial statements in a file around here too.”
D. Wayne didn’t reveal his actions either way. He listened and shrugged his shoulders. “Hmmm, you know how it is.” Nervously he tapped his hand against his knee.
“Yes, I do know,” the banker smiled. “But I don’t care because you always pay me.” He stopped again and rubbed his hands over his eyes and brow. “I want to give you a sizeable tip . . . in cash, of course . . . and the loan for the new church.” A wry grin enveloped his face.
“What else do you want?”
“Fix those football games.” He stared at D. Wayne. “You know,” Harold grinned and then continued, “a hanky here and a hanky there. And you’ll get a stash of cash . . . plus your loan.”
D. Wayne sat aghast, pissed that the idea was even suggested. He glared across the desk at the banker. “You are one mother . . .” He let the phrase fade out and broke it off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
His personality dictated the meeting place. Monty had a worn out, faded Cardinal ball cap pulled over his head to blend in with the multitude of baseball fans that populated the St. Louis area, however the ponytail dangling out the back of it distinguished him. He sat in his used car on the back parking lot of Pedro’s Porno Parlor and wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. Dressed in faded jeans and a red t-shirt with “birds-on-the-bat” stenciled on the front of it he listened to the tunes of the country artists as dusk turned into night. It was still early enough before most of the peeps filled up the vacant spots on the lot. If Harold would hurry
up, then the two of them could go about their business without being noticed.
A nasty plug of Red Man was jammed between his lower lip and gum. The wooziness in his head made him shut his eyes. He dozed as the soothing instrumental relaxed his sub-conscious. It wouldn’t be long before the banker would pull up and line his pockets with another wad of bonus money. After losing his law license the tips had become more of a necessity for the basic needs of life than extra money to go on a four-day bender.
Maybe five minutes at most had passed when Monty awoke to the sound of a gentle tap of a car horn. He hadn’t been asleep too long. The tar hadn’t oozed out of his mouth yet. Harold had his window rolled down and arm propped at an angle resting on the bottom of it. Monty, trying to be as cool as he could after taking a cat nap, rolled down his window. The cars were facing opposite each other and the two inhabitants could easily converse. “What the heck? This isn’t important enough for you?” Harold chastised his friend. “You’re sleeping on the job.”
Monty looked at the reading on the clock radio that sat in the dashboard. “You’re late.”
“By three minutes?”
“It must have thrown off my internal timer.” Monty snarled. He looked a little cranky.
“Here.” Harold extended his arm and handed a manila envelope to his friend. “This should keep everyone happy.”
“It will if there’s plenty in there for me.” He opened the envelope and started to flip through the hundreds, counting them in the process.
“You know what we owe the boys. The rest is yours,” Harold said.
Monty finished counting the bills. “I thought that you’d have a little extra for me . . . you know, a tip or something. I have to live.”
“Let’s see how quiet things stay,” the banker said. “We may need some more for the insurance investigator or the guys from the fire department that snoop around looking for arson.” Harold had an answer for everything. His eyebrows had practically grown together above his nose and now they reminded Monty of how much he looked like a fox.
“Are things turning out the way you wanted them to?”
“As long as you keep up the good work,” Harold said. “I’ll get that old church site.” He wasn’t ready to reveal how the meeting with D. Wayne had gone. “You make sure that the powers down at city hall keep the pressure on that idiot that smashed the pumpkin.”
After a guffaw Monty said, “He’s not welcome in there anymore. What a moron.”
“But he’s got that other piece of land under contract. I don’t want to see him get the special use permit for that property.”
“If they ban him from the meetings he won’t have a chance.”
“I don’t think that they can keep him out of the public meetings,” Harold said, indicating that he had done some research, “especially if he has a request in.”
“I’ll check with Ficke and see what the legal maneuvers are,” Monty assured his contact.
“The city attorney?” Harold asked. Monty nodded. “Find a loophole and concoct something.”
Monty folded over the hundred dollar bills, raised his butt up off the seat a bit, and stuffed what looked like a roll of toilet paper into his front left pocket. “The disorderly conduct charge might be enough.”
“Keep the pressure on the guys up there. Take care of the mayor.” Harold shifted his car into gear. “If the idiot can’t do what he wants with the property, then he won’t be able to buy it. That will allow me to pick it up.” He took his foot off of the brake and rolled away.
“Sure you don’t want to come in for a second?” Monty said as he eased open his door.
“Naw, I’ve got to get home to Stella and the kids. See you later.” Harold pulled off of the lot.
With a wad of money stuffed in his pockets it looked as if Monty was aroused the minute he slithered into the back door of Pedro’s. Whether or not it was going to be a peep show or glory hole booth, Monty couldn’t stay away. He had a few minutes to burn before he had to meet Fricke and Frack.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It was another lovely Sunday morning in September. Stella Syms arrived for eleven o’clock mass at Hands of Faith parish with the four children that still lived at home. Her two eldest had already moved away to college. Harold quickly bolted through a side door to attend to duties for which he had volunteered.
Standing five foot eight with chic highlighted hair, Stella was a statuesque and beautiful soccer mom. She had never worked a day in her life, had a bubbly personality, and an even better disposition. She was as friendly as anyone in the congregation and a popular organizer of events. What she saw in her short, pudgy, hairy, stubby-legged husband was one of the mysteries of the universe. But it was what it was.
After dipping her hands in holy water and genuflecting she led her family to a pew. There, they lowered the kneeler and folded their hands in prayer. Conspicuously absent was her husband, who sat in the back row with a handful of other men.
Father Alphonso Blair presided over the mass. Dressed in vestments, his look on Sunday was in stark contrast to the casual shirt that covered his upper torso while golfing at Prairie Winds. He stood before the congregation in an alb; white, of course, to signify purity of body and soul. It was cinctured at the waist with an additional girdle beneath to attempt to hide his considerable mid-section. Around his neck was the stole and over his shoulders a chasuble ornamented with a cross.
As the mass continued it soon became obvious why Harold sat away from his family. As the call to offering neared he and five other men advanced to the usher’s room. There they each grabbed a basket.
When Father Blair made the call for the offering Harold and the group of ushers jumped into action. Each headed for a bank of pews and passed the baskets up and down the rows. Enclosed envelopes sealed with pledges, personal checks, and cash filled the offering containers. In a few short minutes the men headed for the ushers’ room to count the money. It had been a prosperous weekend for the parish. The parishioners had been in a giving mood.
Harold, because of his banking experience, had been designated to be the head usher. With a tithing congregation numbering almost twenty-five hundred, the average weekly commitment was right at thirty dollars per tithe. A cool, tax free, seventy-five thousand dollars came into the parish’s coffers fifty-two times a year. With an annual budget of nearly four million dollars Father Alphonso Blair and Harold Syms had developed a tight bond over the years. When it came time to count the money after the eleven a.m. service every week, Father Blair gave the responsibility to his trusted friend.
The ushers divvied the money up on the table in the ushers’ room. In one pile went the checks. In the other pile went the cash. After it was counted under a checks and balances system the money was placed into a bank bag and dropped into the church’s vault which already held the proceeds from the previous three weekend services. On Monday the church secretary would make a trip to First Cornstalk Bank and make the deposit from all four weekend services complete with an orderly paper trail.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next day Father Alphonso Blair, a monsignor and director of finance for the diocese, explained to the church secretary that he had an appointment with Harold Syms at First Cornstalk Bank. To save her a trip he explained that he would take the money to the bank and make the deposit. He would return with the deposit slip to verify that the amount that was supposed to go in the bank actually made its way to the church’s account.
Ricki Sandstoner was as personable and friendly with the monsignor of the diocese as she had been with black businessman D. Wayne Smith. “Father Blair, good morning! Are you here to fill out the scramble for Harold?”
“No, no, no. I’ve had enough of golf for the year,” he laughed. His jovial attitude spread toward Ricki. “One tee time a year is good for me.” He handed the bank bag to her.
“What should I tell Harold?” She smiled at the priest. “I’m certain that he was going to pop the question and exte
nd an invite.”
“You tell him that if he needs a player then he can call my friend Scottie,” Father Blair said followed by a robust laugh. He then called her bluff. “But something tells me that Harold isn’t playing in any scrambles. After what I saw the other day the game of golf doesn’t look like his cup of tea either.”
Ricki laughed. “I keep telling him that; he doesn’t even look the part.”
“And his talent won’t cover for him.” The priest laughed. “Or lack of.”
“He buys into all these charity events and tells me to find someone else at the last minute,” Ricki explained. “Give me your friend’s number. Next time I have to work the phone he’ll be the first one I’ll call.”
Father Blair fumbled around in his pocket for Scottie’s number. “Here’s his card. He’ll play every day if he can.”
Ricki thanked the monsignor. “Let me get Harold for you.” Seconds later the banker emerged from his private office. Ricki started laughing hysterically. The two men turned and looked at her in bewilderment.
“What has gotten into you?” Harold asked.
“It’s just been a while.”
“A while for what?”
“A while since I saw you two next to each other.” Father Blair towered a foot higher than the banker and he weighed almost twice as much. Harold waved his hand impassively at his assistant and shook his head sideways. He led the priest into his office and shut the door.
“Have I got a deal for you!” the banker started, barely able to contain his own excitement. He flopped himself onto the cushion that occupied the seat of his chair.
Alpha Bear poured his massive body into a seat across the desk from Harold. “One thing at a time. I came in here to talk to you about the new high school project.”
Harold was bubbling with energy. “That can wait for a few minutes.” He thought that he had finally figured out a way to get the money back into the account of Mrs. Harris.
“What can be so important to put that on the back burner?” The priest knew that Harold had a penchant for making money and had invested with him on a several occasions. He was willing to listen.
