by James Ross
It didn’t come as a surprise. The bank examiners for the state were overdue for their audit and they had arrived unannounced. The bank wasn’t open for business yet. She buzzed the tellers and told them to let everyone in the building know that the doors should remain locked until exactly nine o’clock. Ricki wanted to have time to run into Harold’s office to forewarn him. She looked at her watch and saw that she had five minutes to inform her boss.
“Harold, they’re here,” she announced as she walked into the president’s office. She looked elegant in a dark blue, tight fitting sheath. Wearing peek toe heels she stood over six feet tall and towered above her boss.
“Who?” Harold had one eye on his monitor studying the opening of the stock market and the other eye on the business channel of the cable network.
Ricki was mildly surprised. She put her hands on her hips and glared at her boss. “Who do you think?”
“The auditors?” Harold meekly responded. He didn’t want his guess to be correct.
Ricki nodded her head affirmatively. Even though both of them knew that the audit was overdue, it was never expected. “What do you want me to do?”
“Dammit!” Harold said as his mind quickly went into an auto-pilot. He had been through the process before, but the exercise always seemed to create a fair amount of anxiety. “Okay, you had Walter sanitize the files and all of the loan officers updated the docs, didn’t they?” He referred to the long-time accountant and bank employees.
Ricki shook her head in agreement. “We’re on top of things.”
“Good,” Harold acknowledged. “Don’t unlock the doors until nine o’clock.” He looked at his watch. “That’s buys us a couple more minutes.”
“I’ve already given those instructions out.”
Harold smiled at his trusted secretary. “What would I do without you?”
Ricki grinned back. “You owe me.”
“Make sure they get the red carpet treatment when they get in here.” Harold knew that it was always a good idea to keep the examiners well supplied with the proper food and beverages.
“I know what to do and how to do it. We can’t buy them lunch, but I’ll inform them that we were planning on having an employee luncheon today and let them know that they are welcome. To stay on the safe side I’ll ask them what they all like to make sure that they’re happy.”
Harold smiled and gave the thumbs up sign to his secretary. “After they get here I want you to have them take a seat outside my office, then come in here, but don’t close the door,” Harold instructed Ricki.
“What are you planning to do?” This was a new procedure that she had not done during the previous audits.
“I want them to overhear our conversation. I’m going to throw them a bone,” Harold explained. Ricki looked puzzled. “We’ve got some clean files and I want to eat up a few hours of their time with those. Maybe I can get them to look at our good stuff to divert their attention from our questionable stuff.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Think about it,” Harold said. “If you have a bar full of drunks, then you send the sober one out the door first to attract the attention of the cops. That way the drunks can sneak out the door and get out of the lot.”
“You lost me,” Ricki replied.
“I want these guys to think that we have some problem files that we want off limits to an audit,” Harold explained further. “But really those are our clean files.” He prided himself on being sly and grinned mischievously at his secretary. “Now jump into action.” Ricki headed out of his office. “And smile!” As she turned and left his office Harold reached into his desk and grabbed three files. He lifted the tax returns and current bank statements out of each and placed them in a separate manila envelope. This omission will be simple enough, he thought. We can rectify this in less than a minute. Harold smiled at his own cleverness. He placed the files back into the desk drawer and the envelope in a separate drawer.
Ricki went to her desk and grabbed the keys to the bank. She proceeded to the front door and opened the facility. The examiners had already exited their cars and were waiting by the entrance to the bank. “Can I help you?” Ricki said as she welcomed the visitors with an effervescent attitude.
A nerdy looking, middle-aged man with closely cropped black hair said, “We’re from the state to examine the books of the bank.” Standing in a wrinkled dark suit and thin black tie he flashed his credentials. “I’m Kent Blanchard, senior auditor for the state of Illinois.”
Ricki turned on the charm. She reached out and shook his hand. Her smile beamed throughout the lobby of the bank. “Why, come right on in,” she urged. “Can I get you anything?”
“We’ll need to set up in the conference room,” Mr. Blanchard suggested. “Plan on us being here for at least two days.” His monotone voice and total lack of personality suggested that he was as bored with his job as his wife was bored with their marriage. It appeared that he was merely putting in the hours to make a living and reach retirement. Three young assistants that appeared to be right out of college followed their boss through the bank.
Ricki buzzed the support staff and told them to set up the conference room. The refrigerator was stocked with every beverage imaginable. She reached for the petty cash and sent one of the girls to get a fruit basket at the local grocery store. Another made a fresh pot of coffee. She led Kent to a chair outside of Harold’s office. “Make yourself at home. I’ll tell Mr. Syms that you’re here.” Ricki turned and walked into Harold’s office. “The examiners from the state are here for our audit,” she announced with a wink.
Harold feigned panic. He shuffled papers around on his desk. “Oh my gosh, are we ready for that?” Harold asked with a bit of excitement.
“Whether we are or not, they’re here,” Ricki deadpanned, following directions.
“Whatever you do don’t let them have Ray Miller’s file or Mark Lynch’s file,” Harold said in a voice that carried outside his door purposely, “and keep them away from the Furlong file. We don’t want them to see those.”
Ricki had her back to the auditor and rolled her eyes skyward. On the inside she was busting a gut. “Yes sir.”
The state examiner jotted down the names of the customers on a legal pad. He was hoping that his eavesdropping would pay dividends.
“Do they want to see me?” Harold asked.
“I think that it would be a good idea to introduce yourself,” Ricki answered. She smiled, gently shook her head sideways as if she couldn’t believe how thick he was pouring it on, and then bowed her head and closed her eyes.
Harold jumped up from his seat and barged out the door. “Hi, I’m Harold Syms, president of First Cornstalk Bank.” He let his charisma lure the state auditor into thinking that it was a gracious welcome.
His lively entrance was countered with a frown and wet fish handshake from the nerdy state auditor. “Kent Blanchard. We’ll need a separate phone line and fax line for our auditing purposes.”
The static electricity that was transmitted from the auditor to Harold made the hair stand up on the back of banker’s neck. Harold led the banker down the hall. “We’ll set you folks up in the conference room. My girls are setting it up now.”
“I guess we can start by asking for all of the files in your real estate portfolio,” Blanchard coolly stated. He looked down at his legal pad. “And we need to look at the file for Ray Miller, Mark Lynch, and the Furlong fellow.”
Two days later . . .
The auditors wrapped up their business at First Cornstalk Bank. Blanchard approached Ricki and requested a visit with Harold. The bank president marched into the conference room, confident of a passing grade. The younger guys working for the state had spent much of their time on the three files that Harold had planted. “Everything seems to be in relatively good shape,” Blanchard began. “We did however find that some of the files were missing current tax returns and bank statements.”
With a naïve response Ha
rold acted puzzled. “That shouldn’t be. We pride ourselves on staying on top of things.” That couldn’t be further from the truth. They were far too busy staying aggressive on the streets and bringing loans in through the door. Normally the files were a mess.
Kent Blanchard studied his notes and spewed forth some of the report. “We need tax returns and current bank statements on a few of the files. Other than that everything looked fine. We’ll see you again in another year.”
Harold looked at the report and headed for the door. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll be right back.” He exited through the door and over his shoulder yelled. “I think I have what you need.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The bricks and mortar, or in this case the metal walls of Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen, were in a burnt out heap on the edge of the gravel parking lot. The material possessions of the church may have been damaged, but the spirit of the congregation was undeterred. Reverend Ostrahemial Puld and D. Wayne Smith met on a Thursday soon after the fire had gutted their church. The two of them invited Tuey O’Tweety to meet them at the church. They needed the services of his backhoe.
Chamber of Commerce weather continued in September. The ruins were basking in brilliant sunshine when Tuey wheeled the trailer carrying the backhoe to a stop on the shoulder of the state highway. Dressed in his trademark garb that revealed his massive biceps, he jumped out of the cab and joined the two men as they discussed their plans for the upcoming service on Sunday.
“What are we going to do?” D. Wayne asked Reverend Puld as Tuey walked into the conversation.
“We’ll simply set da chairs up on da parking lot and have an outdoor service,” Reverend Puld offered.
“But what happens if it rains?” D. Wayne asked as he played devil’s advocate.
Reverend Puld wouldn’t have anything to do with that thought. “Have ya ever heard of divine intervention?” The two men shook their heads up and down. “I’ve already put da request in.” Even though D. Wayne and Tuey dwarfed the frail preacher, his booming voiced rang with confidence. “Don’t ya worry.”
“What did you have in mind?” D. Wayne asked. He was searching for answers about how to set the scene.
Reverend Puld walked over to the charred remains of the church. “I wanna have dis in da backdrop,” the preacher stated emphatically. “I want dese remains ta be da topic of my sermon.” He continued on to the sixteen-foot-long steeple. Only the lower portion of it was burnt. The rest was still intact with the exception of the four-foot high cross that had snapped off when the steeple fell to the ground. He bent over and picked up the cross. “I wanna put dis back on da steeple. We need ta have dis ready by Sunday.”
“Can you help with all of this Tuey?” D. Wayne asked.
Tuey nodded his head. “Dat’s what I’s got da backhoe fo’. I’s can moves dat pile around.”
“Can you get that cross attached?”
Tuey took the cross from the preacher and examined it. The joints were weak and needed to be strengthened. “I’s can fix dis cross an’ straighten ’er out. An’ den I’s can puts some new paint on ’er.”
Reverend Puld was impressed. “We’ve needed a fix-it man around here fo’ a long time. Thank ya very much.” He continued to the metal tripod trailer. The heat of the fire had melted the letters on the display board. “Do ya think dat we can get dis wheeled out to da road and git a new message up?”
“What did you want it to say?” D. Wayne asked.
“I want to let the world know that we will be back,” the preacher said. “I’ve got some new letters in my car. If ya can git dat tripod rolled out dere den I’ll get a new message on da sign.”
“Can you help with that Tuey?” D. Wayne asked.
Tuey shook his head with certainty. The smell of the charred metal gave him an upset feeling. “Let me’s git my backhoe down off uh da trailer. I’ll git everyting aw fixed up fo’ ya. We’s need ta push aw uh dis stuff outta here.”
D. Wayne turned to Reverend Puld. “I guess we can hold the services outside on the parking lot for a few weeks.”
“What did dat banker tell ya?” the preacher asked.
“We can have some vacant space in one of his office buildings in two weeks. It won’t be a church, but we’ll have the room for the congregation.” D. Wayne indicated. “He also said that if we relocated to another site then he didn’t see any problem with getting a loan to rebuild.”
“Another site? I like it right here.”
“We can talk about that later,” D. Wayne said as he backtracked out of the situation. He didn’t want to get into the specifics of what Harold Syms had said. “What else do you want us to do out here today?”
“Well, we’ll need ta git a platform built fo’ me ta stand on. And a new lectern,” Reverend Puld said as he looked around the site. “We won’t worry ’bout da baptismal.”
“Where’s aw uh da peoples gonna sit?” Tuey asked.
“We have ta set up da chairs,” the preacher explained.
“When is we gonna do dat?” Tuey asked.
“It has to be on Saturday,” D. Wayne said, “and I won’t be here to help.”
“Where’s ya gonna be?” Tuey wondered.
“It’s football season, Tuey. I’ll be out refereeing a game.”
“So’s I’s gonna have ta do aw uh dat by myself?”
“No, no, no,” Reverend Puld interrupted. “I’ve got mo’ people lined up to help on Saturday.”
“Have mercy on you, Reverend,” Tuey said. “I’s can git aw uh dat udda stuff done today.” He headed to the flatbed and started to unhook the chains so that he could back the backhoe off of the trailer. A few minutes later he was moving the tripod trailer out to the side of the road.
Reverend Puld retrieved the bag of new lettering and went over to change the sign. When he was finished the message said: Stop On By As We Undergo a Faith Lift.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
All of the big shots who worked with the federal government around St. Louis filed into the parking lot of Prairie Winds Golf Course for their annual event. They came from both sides of the river, so the professional jealousies between Missouri and Illinois were put on hold for the day as perfect weather blanketed the Gateway City. US attorneys, assistant US attorneys, investigators with the CID, IRS personnel, employees of the FBI, and ATF troubleshooters were present. It was as if the federal government took a day off from law enforcement and mingled instead on the golf course.
In spite of Thomas Jefferson Booker’s request not to do so, J Dub and Curt erected a large, circus-like tent on the grounds to house the support staff that didn’t have any interest in playing golf. Beverages were plentiful. The aroma from the barbecue grill filled the air and hamburgers, hot dogs, bratwursts, and pork steaks were there for the offering. Any kind of candy bar or variety of chips a person could want was available. With gasoline prices soaring out of sight and the economy stagnant, it was good to see that some organizations were anxious to spend money. Thanks to the federal government the day was a financial windfall for Prairie Winds Golf Course.
Booker had assumed the role of liaison between the feds and J Dub. The agent with the criminal investigative division of the IRS had worked on breaking the case against the prior ownership of the property. He was out on the course playing with some other IRS workers when J Dub and Curt drove up to check on the pace of play. If there was one person that the brothers wanted to make sure was happy, then it was Booker. They wanted to make sure that everyone was having a good time so that they could host the event again next season.
“How many under par are you now?” J Dub asked as he and Curt drove up to Booker. They stood on the fourteenth tee. The event was a four person scramble with a shotgun start. Booker had started on the eleventh hole. “We’re two for three,” Booker said with a laugh as he indicated that his group had birdied two of the first three holes. The attractive black man had a deep voice and a vibrant, yet analytical personality.
“You’re off to a good start,” J Dub commented as he walked up to shake Booker’s hand.
“Heck we don’t care what we shoot,” Booker conceded. “Today we get a day off to enjoy the weather.”
“Don’t pull my leg. I know that you can’t stand to lose,” J Dub countered. “How’s the pace of play?”
“Not bad. We haven’t had to wait much at all.” The group ahead of them consisted of two men and two women. They were just driving up to their ball and it looked like a slight pause in the action might ensue.
“Three minutes here or four minutes there is to be expected,” J Dub said. “We’ve got the course packed today.”
“Thanks for accommodating all of us,” Booker said. “But I told you not to get the tent.”
“Thank you for helping to get the place back for us,” J Dub said as he volleyed back the gracious comment. The two men retreated to the back of the tee, away from the rest of the group. “The tent was no problem. We have the Children’s Hospital event in a few days. They need it.”
The IRS investigator smiled and changed topics. “You know,” Booker started, “I’ve always wondered what your ex-partner meant when he told me to figure out what was in that pill box.”
“What was in it?” J Dub wondered. He was at a loss for where the conversation was headed.
“A gold-capped front tooth,” Booker informed. “Do you know anything about that?”
“Beats me,” J Dub said. “That idiot that I was involved with seemed to have a lot of secrets that he didn’t want anybody to know about.”
“Give it some thought and see if you can remember anything that he might have hinted at over the years,” Booker advised. “There are a lot of guys out here today that would take an interest in pursuing that investigation.”
