Naughty and Nice

by Sarah J. Brooks

  Twenty minutes later, Willard and I were ascending the utility stairs toward my office. I introduced Willard to Sean and asked Sean to go through the numbers for him. When he’d seen it all, I said, “Steve has been embezzling for two years, using his wife’s pseudo corporation to receive the money. I’m willing to bet he used the money to acquire real estate he knew I was interested in before I could get to it. I’ll bet if Sean here goes through the records, he’ll find that the last few properties I’ve purchased were all sold to me through a holding company, M.P. Enterprises, Inc.

  Willard listened and sat in the chair solemnly, thinking through the situation. “I believe what you have here is the base of evidence you need to take him down, Chris. It will trigger the felony clause in your contract and he will go to prison. Are you ready for me to pull the plug?”

  I shook my head slowly. “No, not just yet. I have some innocents to get out of the path first. I’ll let you know when. It will be soon. Very, very soon. Sean, I want you to finish up the work. Go as far back as you need to and give me the proof. I don’t want any of this to get out. We don’t know how deep it goes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sean answered. “Anything else, sir?”

  “No, good job. Great job. Make copies of whatever you need and plan to work off-site to put together the rest of the proof. Don’t leave any prints behind, Sean. Steve is no dummy and he’ll know if you’ve been into the system.”

  “No problem, sir. Standard operating procedure.”

  “Good. Thank you, Sean. I’ll be in touch.”

  Sean left the office and Willard was studying my face. “You’re worried about Corey, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe, a little. I know he’s not in on the building. He would have threatened me with what he had, and he didn’t. He just thinks I told someone to burn it. Steve’s holding him as leverage against me, but no, Corey’s not in at any illegal level, unless you count cheating on his wife.”

  “Then…?”

  “Willard, I haven’t told you, but there’s a young lady I’ve been seeing.”

  “Okay… that’s not new, Chris. I’ve known you for some time, remember.”

  “No, this one is different. She’s a keeper.”

  “Where’s the problem?”

  “She is Lillie Flemming, daughter of the bakery owner. She doesn’t know what I do or that I wanted to buy her building.”

  “Shit. So, you’ll lose her.”

  “Maybe. I hope not.”

  “Which is why you bought the building.”

  “Exactly. Steve can’t find out about it.”

  “He won’t. I set up a holding company that only you control and used those funds to pay off the taxes and buy the building.”

  “But you left up the sale notices, right?”

  “Yes. As far as anyone knows who goes by the place, it’s going up on the auction block.”

  “Can Steve find the trail?”

  “No. Impossible. First of all, he’s waiting for the sale on the courthouse steps, so he won’t be sniffing around until the end of January when that happens. By then, I hope you’ll have given me the signal to pull the plug.”

  “Oh, hell yes, it will be long before then. Okay, then I guess your next job will be to interface with Sean and prepare the papers to get Steve off my back—and to cover my ass. Can you do it?”

  “Sounds like a piece of cake. The Feds will be involved, Chris. There will be a scandal.”

  I slapped my hand on the desk. “Doesn’t matter. I’m dumping the company anyway. Tired of it. I just want that SOB in prison and out of the way. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Okay. Well, thank you again for coming. I know this is your family time.”

  Willard stood. “Chris, we’ve known one another long enough that I consider you family.” He put out his hand and I stood and shook it firmly, then went around the desk and hugged him briefly.

  “You’re one of the few people I trust, Willard. That means a lot.”

  Willard nodded and left my office.

  I settled back in my chair and began planning. That was my specialty, after all.

  Chapter 21

  Lillie

  I thought I looked very professional when I consider my appearance in the Ramada Inn bathroom mirror. Okay, so maybe black slacks with a white turtleneck sweater wasn’t commonly seen in the boardroom, but I was determined to wear my Chicago clothes for this appointment. Walking into a bank to ask for a loan wearing a Paris original, was probably going to work against me.

  Picking up my purse and coat, I drew a deep breath for encouragement and drove down to the Peoples Bank, where Flemming’s Bakery had been for years. Mr. Sherman looked much the same as I remembered. He’d always held himself rigidly upright and seldom smiled, not even when he was buying our famous pecan crispies. As I approached his desk, I realized why his posture had always been so stiff. That was the way he sat at his desk as president of the Peoples Bank. He stood and held out his hand, nodding, but true to character, he did not smile. “This Flemming,” he acknowledged me.

  “Mr. Sherman.” I could see this was going to call for what I like to think of as church -like behavior. There would be no jokes, no asking after the family and certainly no exaggeration for the purpose of illustration.

  “What may I do for you today?”

  “I’ll get right to the point, Mr. Sherman. As you know, my father’s bakery building, and consequently business, was targeted recently by what the police believed to be an arsonist. The building burned through no fault of anyone who worked there, including my father. That said, due to some oversight, the building was uninsured at the time and my parents have chosen this opportunity to retire.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  “I believed you were, but thought it prudent to begin my presentation by stating the facts. Now then, I’m not sure if you are aware, but I have also recently completed my education and of course I have a lifetime of experience behind me. It is my goal to secure the funds to rebuild the bakery, thereby recapturing the customers who still know and miss us. However, I have, in the interim, through the generosity of a friend, been to Europe and have developed a business plan which would include enhancing the Flemming’s reputation by adding a European flair. Having done business with your bank for decades, you were, obviously my first choice from which to seek financing.”

  “Lillie, if I might call you that, you know I have been a customer many times over and while I always enjoyed your bakery goods, it was the atmosphere of your family’s hands-on style that often encouraged me to purchase from you rather than some of the newer, more modern stores. That said, it is possible to rebrand a business with some success, however it’s a tricky business and requires expertise. Now, what sort of collateral do you have against which to borrow?”

  “I have the location, the ongoing customer base and the reputation of my family’s good name.”

  He took off his glasses and laid them solemnly on his desk. Shaking his head, he said, “I’m afraid those are not material collateral, other than the property which, if I’m not mistaken, is currently a demolition site. In fact, it would take considerable funds simply to restore up to an empty lot, therefore I don’t see that as being a mortgageable commodity. I’m sorry, Lillie, but I don’t think that People’s Bank can help you. My suggestion to you is to find a partner investor, someone who is willing to take the risk in order to profit from the long-term investment. Their criteria will be less fiduciary and more emotional. Thank you for coming in.”

  I felt as though I’d been slapped. It was like being asked to leave the family dinner table. Peoples Bank had been with us from the beginning and now they were turning away. I knew it wasn’t Mr. Sherman’s fault, entirely. The bank had been bought out by a larger conglomerate a few years earlier and local, small business loans were no longer their target market. I thanked him for his time and left the bank like a whipped dog.

  I was
crying by the time I reached the car. Why am I always crying nowadays? I never used to be a mess like this?

  Flemming’s had one major competitor in the area. Fischer’s Bakery was owned by a younger couple who had moved into the neighborhood from New York City. They catered to a young set of clients; those who were wanting to fool themselves into thinking that a bagel made with organic flour had fewer calories than those with good old-fashioned Gold Medal. My parents had scoffed at their new-fangled ideas, often commenting beneath their breaths that certain people with uppity ideas should keep to themselves. In a neighborhood as ours, outsiders had a hard time fighting their way in to acceptance and Mama had been highly vocal when it came to pointing out their lack of suitable credentials.

  Now I was driving past their business and noticed their parking lot was full. People were standing-room-only inside. Well, now I knew where the Flemming’s loyal customers had gone. Over to the enemy, even if they were from out of state.

  I found a parking place down the street and got out of my car. Straightening out my sweater, I ran quick fingers through my hair and headed toward Fischer’s with determination. Old Mr. Nesbitt, our customer for over twenty years, held the door open for me to enter.

  “Hello Lillie,” he greeted me amicably. “Sorry to see the way things turned out for your folks.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Nesbitt. Have you been coming here long? How is the food?”

  “Well, no where else to go, honey, now that you’re gone. I don’t get out too far, you remember. I’d say their food is tolerable, but nothing will ever match Flemming’s for a good sweet roll.”

  “Thank you for saying that.” I avoided the line and stepped to the side of the counter, motioning to the girl at the register. When she finished ringing up the current customer, she came over to me, her finger already poised to point to the bathrooms.

  “No, that’s not what I need. I’d like to talk to Mr. or Mrs. Fischer. Please tell them Lillie Flemming is here to see them.”

  She looked at me doubtfully, assuming I was a salesperson, I suppose. She’d obviously never heard of Flemming’s, and that hurt. We’d been so soon forgotten.

  Mr. Fischer eventually came up from the back and his attitude was cool, but friendly enough. He was short with closely-cropped black hair and a receding hairline. He obviously worked out regularly and his arms were covered with tattoos. He reminded me of a gorilla and I fought to keep from smiling.

  “Would you have a moment to talk?”

  “Well, I’m up to my ears, you see the crowd, but I guess I can take a short break. C’mon back.”

  I followed him through the swinging doors, completely aware of just having been disrespected, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, as the expression went. He showed me to a break table where employees ate their lunch and motioned for me to sit down. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Thank you for taking time to talk to me. As you know, my parents’ bakery building burned recently. It’s my goal to rebuild it.”

  “So, why are you here talking to me? I’m not in the loan business and frankly, why would I help you rebuild my competition. Well, at least you might have thought you were competition…our sales were skyrocketing and it was only a matter of time before we drove you folks out the old-fashioned way.”

  In that moment I felt a hatred I couldn’t explain. I knew what Mama meant about outsiders not being welcomed—his rudeness and east coast brutality was palpable. I wanted to slap him. “I see I’ve come at a bad time, Mr. Fischer. I can see you’re busy,” I said, standing up abruptly. Our business was concluded.

  I turned and was on my way to the front when he called after me in a voice loud enough that anyone in the building could hear. “Hey kid… if you Flemmings are hard up, I could always hire you part-time to sell bagels. Just saying…”

  My face burned with embarrassment and indeed, many of those in the front were former Flemming’s customers and their downcast eyes were respectful, but useless. I couldn’t have been more humiliated.

  I retreated to home plate – my queen-sized bed at the Ramada. I didn’t even bother to hang up my only pair of unwrinkled slacks. I just threw myself on the bed, and that’s right, bawled my eyes out.

  Chapter 22

  Christopher

  By the time Steve showed up for work, I was already halfway through my preparations for his lynching. I could tell by his distancing himself from me that he knew something was up. He’d probably not even have come in if he hadn’t had to get to his office, and to the computer with the two-faced bookkeeping.

  I let him have his space, at least for the time being. I was working with the accountant, putting together the numbers for the Carolina’s Emporium and Tea Room franchise. I’d made my decision. That business no longer held any appeal to me. It was tainted by Steve, by Corey’s betrayal and now by the longing I felt for Lillie while knowing that I couldn’t continue with the previous plans while she was planning her own resurrection. She was too important to me.

  I was selling it, and I already had buyers bidding to get it. It was still very hush-hush; I had to keep Steve out of it until I was in the right position. He didn’t suspect anything was up since the accountant being in my office at the beginning of the new year was a totally expected sight. No one knew, except Willard, Sean and myself. Even my accountant thought it was business as usual.

  I watched the clock. At just after eleven-thirty, I casually strolled down the hallway toward Steve’s office. His back was to the door and he was in a heated discussion with someone. He didn’t hear my tap.

  “I don’t care, I want him out of town, you hear me? It’s too hot right now. In fact, that’s a good idea. Send him down to the Keys, to Mickey. Tell Mickey I sent him and to keep him busy until things cool down around here. You got that?” He slapped his phone down onto his desk as he swiveled in the chair, his head snapping up as he caught sight of me. His face morphed instantly. Damn, but he was good.

  “Well, look who’s here. How was Paris, Chris?” He got up and came around his desk, holding his hand out to shake. I shook it, acting as though nothing was wrong. Two could play that game.

  “Fine, fine… beautiful, really. Always enjoy the holidays in the old country. Listen, Steve, I’m onto a deal and I need you to join me at lunch with a guy. It’s something I ran across while you were in the islands.” I pretended he’d been out of town and I could see in his eyes that he was on alert. He had spies everywhere and I had no idea what he’d heard. “In fact, we’ll be late if we don’t get going. Grab your coat, I’ll drive.”

  I could tell he wanted to beg off. He was searching for some last-minute excuse but I didn’t give him a chance. I’d already started down the hallway to the exit. He had no choice but to follow me.

  As soon as he climbed into my car, I started with the small talk. Described the hotel in Paris and the food. I talked about Marga’s first flight and how she’d lit up at the cart full of pastries. “Came back with lots of good ideas,” I rambled on. “Let me tell you about this chocolate cake I had. I got the recipe by bribing the chef. It has turmeric in it, can you imagine? You can’t taste it, at least not enough to identify, but it adds a quality that’s hard to describe. I’ve already sent it down to the test kitchen and they should be bringing up some samples this afternoon. I can’t wait for you to try it.”

  I knew I was boring him to death. He was fidgety, wanting the conversation to end and to have a cigarette. I was enjoying the torture and didn’t let up. I kept talking all the way into Danny’s Pub, where I lead him to the back booth where our lunch date was already waiting.

  Corey was sullenly leaning back in the booth corner, but straightened immediately when he saw who I’d brought. The tension was thick as the waitress came and I ordered steak salads and iced tea all the way around. I was enjoying the torture more and more. Steve was strictly a corned beef on rye with a whiskey kind of guy.

  Corey’s eyes were on me, looking for some clue as to how to react.
Steve was stiff and chose not to even remove his coat. I gestured for him to slide into the booth ahead of me, essentially cutting off his escape route. I continued with the inane small talk until our meals were delivered.

  “Well!” I began, biting some salad from my fork. “I guess I should have introduced you two again, but I seem to remember you’ve already met.”

  “What’s going on, Chris?” Corey wanted to know.

  I looked at him with a particular expression he knew well—it told him to shut up and pay attention; I was running the show.

  “So, I hear you two have become quite chummy lately.” I picked up the reins and led the horses to my water.

  “Now, Chris, you’re getting ahead of yourself,” Steve started out defensively. I knew I had him dead to rights.

  “No, now Steve, I don’t think I am. Let me recount. Let’s start with the matter of the Lemming’s Bakery burning down. There’s a lot of suspicion about that and I’m starting to get some heat. Steve, please tell me you didn’t burn that personally?”

  “What? Hell, no, you think I’m an idiot? Listen, Tollier,” he said, putting on his tough guy routine. “You said you wanted that building and to do what it took to get it.”

  “Yes, I did, but I meant to offer them whatever price they were asking and you knew that, right?” I casually munched my salad as though nothing was wrong.

  “Yeah, but you’re a piker, always have been. Hell, we wouldn’t be where we are today without me.”

  “No, I suppose that’s true,” I put in, but the irony slid past him. “So, who did you use?”

  “I’ve got connections, and don’t you forget that. Anyway, the guy’s going out of town. I took care of it this morning. In fact, that’s the conversation you walked in on.”

  “So, why didn’t you just offer to buy the bakery? Why torch it?”

  “You really are stupid, aren’t you? You have any idea how much they might’ve held out for? Old crazies like them two? They might’ve wanted two or three mil. Shit! I saved you a bundle and you know it. Also got rid of your competition at the same time. Hell!” he pounded the table for emphasis. “You don’t appreciate me—never have.”