Shell Game (Stand Alone 2)

by Badal, Joseph

  He was absolutely gleeful. Money had that effect on him. It had only cost him $1 million in a “gift” to Donald Matson to take over Broad Street National Bank. $1 million to make hundreds of millions of dollars. Folsom knew Matson could have recommended any of a hundred different investors, including other banks, interested in buying Broad Street from the Feds. The “gift” had assured Folsom of being the winning bidder. He wasn’t just gleeful, he was horny. Money did that to him, as well. He glanced at the photograph on the credenza in his office. It was taken on his third honeymoon. Three marriages over twenty years, with five-year-gaps between them. It crossed his mind that each of his wives was a replica of the others. They were all about the same age when he married them. All blonde and blue-eyed, all daughters of blue-blood Philadelphia families that had fallen on tough times. They were all more than happy to marry their daughters off to someone with real wealth and Folsom was excited to marry women who reminded him of the girls he used to wait on in the Chestnut Hill restaurant.

  He rubbed his crotch as he looked at the photograph. Wendy looked so innocent. As had all his wives. Folsom knew it was his fault his previous two marriages had ended in divorces involving large financial settlements. But the money he gave his wives was mutually understood to be hush money. If the word got out he was a serial abuser, no woman would have anything to do with him and his business reputation would be damaged. No more deals from the FDIC. He shivered involuntarily at the thought of what he did to his wives. He enjoyed what he did to women. He just hated what it cost him when the women had had enough and came to the conclusion he would never stop.

  Folsom knew Wendy was fast coming to that same conclusion. But he couldn’t help himself. It felt so damned good when he humiliated women like those who used to look down on him. But the women he married weren’t uneducated. They had connections and options. They would only put up with the mistreatment for so long.

  He decided to go home to Wendy. He was in the mood to celebrate. Might as well pull out all the stops tonight. He might not get another chance with her. First he’d call Sanford Cunningham at the bank; see how things had progressed since they’d talked earlier. Cunningham would tell him how much money he was going to make and that would just heighten his sexual desire.

  After making the call to Cunningham, Folsom packed up his brief case and walked out to his black Mercedes, muttering, “Wendy, I’ve got something for you.”

  SUNDAY

  JULY 17, 2011

  CHAPTER NINE

  Katherine Winter didn’t sleep well on Saturday night. She’d called Paul Saunders after she made the circuit of restaurant locations. She wanted to know how the meeting with Edward and Nick had gone. Paul gave her a play-by-play.

  “Paul, I want to know how Gerald Folsom wound up with Frank’s bank stock twenty-two years ago.”

  “Why now, Katherine? After all these years?”

  “That should be obvious, Paul. Folsom’s now in a position to ruin my son.”

  Paul explained the deals Folsom made with the government to take over Frank’s loans and the collateral against those loans.

  “When did you learn about this?” she’d demanded. “About what Folsom did?”

  “Shortly after Frank died,” Paul told her.

  “And you kept this information to yourself all these years?”

  “Listen, Katherine, I—”

  Katherine had hung up on Paul before she said something she might regret.

  Her thoughts now ranged from concern for Edward’s future to visceral anger at Gerald Folsom.

  She knew her children were resilient and could bounce back from even the worst experience – she’d observed that after they’d lost their father. But she suspected that losing a company he’d built from scratch and watching his employees walk away without jobs in a bad economy would be terribly difficult on Edward.

  Her anger and hatred toward Folsom radiated off of her. Paul Sanders alluded to Folsom contributing to Frank’s death through the stress his deals had put on Frank. That was an awful thing to contemplate. And she felt even worse about being so unaware of the pressure Frank had been under. She’d lived a privileged existence and never even suspected her husband was in financial difficulty. Now Folsom, the man who had harassed her before she and Frank married, contributed to Frank’s financial ruin, profited from Frank’s death, was now a threat to her son’s business.

  Katherine got out of bed at 4 a.m., went to the kitchen, and made herself a cup of tea. A thread of a thought tickled at her brain. She first tried to discard the idea but then embraced it and fleshed it out. She criticized herself for being naïve and stupid for even thinking about something this crazy. But her motherly instincts nurtured the thought.

  After ping-ponging the idea in her brain for three hours, she came to the conclusion she had nothing to lose. She showered, put on her make-up, and dressed. Then she called Paul and told him her plan.

  “Katherine, are you nuts? This is about the most inappropriate thing you could do. What in God’s name do you think you’re going to accomplish?”

  She maintained her calm and said, “Paul, I didn’t call you for your advice or opinion. I figured you could find out where he lives. If you can’t do that, I’ll find it some other way. You know I will. So, why make it difficult for me? Besides, you owe me. You should have told me long ago about Folsom’s role in Frank’s financial troubles. ”

  “I’m not trying to create difficulties; I’m trying to protect you.”

  Katherine paused and said, “I know that, Paul. But I’ve thought about this and I’m going to do it, with or without your help.”

  “Wait until tomorrow. You can talk to him at his office. Then you—”

  “Goodbye, Paul,” Katherine said, about to hang up. But before she could replace the receiver, Paul shouted, “Stay there! I don’t have the information you want, but I can probably get it if you give me an hour. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Paul called back in fifty minutes. “I have it, but I’m not going to give it to you unless I go with you. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.” Paul slammed down his phone leaving Katherine gawking at the dead line.

  The ride from Katherine’s home to Philadelphia’s Villanova area took fifteen minutes. It took another fifteen minutes to find Gerald Folsom’s home. Paul was quiet during most of the drive, other than periodically muttering under his breath. When he pulled up to the curb in front of Folsom’s address, a multi-acre, wrought-iron-fenced estate with a three-hundred-yard paved driveway bordered by cyprus trees, Paul parked the car and shifted in his seat.

  “Now, tell me what you think you’re going to accomplish.”

  Katherine was beginning to question that herself. What felt like a good idea at home now, in front of Folsom’s house, seemed ridiculous. “I want to talk to the man. Tell him I know what he did to Frank years ago and that he has the opportunity to make amends by dealing with my children in a fair manner. I—”

  Paul blurted a laugh. “Katherine, Gerald Folsom is not a nice man. I doubt you can reason with someone like him. And look at this place. It’s a fortress. How do you propose getting past the gate?”

  Katherine threw open her door and said, “I’ll ring the bell.” She got out of the car and began walking across a twenty-foot-wide strip of grass toward a huge stone column anchoring the right side of the fifteen-foot-high entry gate. She was still fifty feet away from the column when the gate suddenly began to open. Moments later a huge black Mercedes with tinted windows roared down the driveway, sped through the gateway and swerved left onto the street in front of the property. In five seconds, the car disappeared around a curve.

  Paul got out of his car and shouted at Katherine, “I think that was Folsom.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He hesitated. “No.”

  “We’ve come this far,” Katherine said. “I’m not turning around now. Let’s go up to the house and see if he’s there.”

  A smile on h
is face, Paul pointed at the gate that was now closing. “I think we’re too late. You’ll have to ring the bell.”

  Katherine turned and ran toward the diminishing opening, making it in just before the gate clanged shut. Paul walked over and shook his head. “Now what?”

  Katherine eyed the column and a small shack hidden behind it. She spied a one-foot-square metal door. She turned the handle on the door and found an electrical panel with a green and red button. She pushed the green button and the gate immediately began to slide open. She met Paul’s gaze and snapped her fingers. “Nothing to it, Paul.”

  “Aw, jeez, what have I gotten myself into?” He walked back to his car and drove through the gate, stopping to let Katherine get in the passenger seat before proceeding toward an immense residence that was more castle than house. It was a four-story stone structure with a pitched gray slate roof and huge dormers. The driveway branched to the right toward a five car garage, and to the left to the front entrance. A stone fountain sat in the middle of the circular drive that was at least fifty yards across.

  “You realize this is trespassing,” Paul said.

  Katherine didn’t respond, waiting for Paul to stop by the front entrance. She got out of the car, walked up to the front door, and pressed the doorbell. She waited for thirty long seconds but got no response. She tried the bell again, with the same result.

  Paul got out of his car. “He’s gone, Katherine. Let’s get out of here.”

  Ignoring Paul, Katherine lifted an enormous metal knocker in the center of the door and let it drop. The noise it made was loud enough to wake the dead, she thought. It also caused the door to move an inch. She turned around and said to Paul, “The door’s not locked.” She turned back to the door and pushed against it.

  “Don’t go in there, Katherine,” Paul yelled, as he ran after her. By the time he reached the door, she was already inside, standing in the center of an entry half the size of a basketball court. A five-tier chandelier hung overhead; curved stairways rose to the next floor from each side of the entry.

  “Hello, is anyone home?” Katherine shouted.

  Paul grabbed her arm and groaned, “This is nuts. We can’t be in here.”

  She shook off his hand and said, “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what? I didn’t hear anything but my beating heart.”

  “Quiet, Paul. Listen.”

  They stood in the center of that massive area and listened. A few seconds passed before a sound drifted down from somewhere above the first floor.

  “You hear it now, Paul?”

  He nodded. “Sounds like it’s coming from upstairs.” He moved toward the bottom of the left staircase and waited. This time the sound came louder. Moaning and then sobbing.

  No longer hesitant, Paul moved up the stairs as quickly as his out-of-shape legs would allow. By the time he reached the next floor, Katherine sprinted past him. They fast-walked down the corridor to the left toward an ornate double door. Paul pulled Katherine back before she could grip the door handle and stepped in front of her. He pushed down on the handle and slowly opened the door. Katherine moved around Paul and stepped into the room. A tall, young blonde wearing a silk robe that draped her shoulders bent before a vanity table, her hands on the table supporting her, looking into a mirror. She was sobbing terribly. She had apparently not heard them enter.

  “Miss,” Paul said.

  The young woman whipped around and shrieked. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Paul had barely moved into the room, when his breath caught in his chest. The woman’s robe was open and she wore nothing beneath it. Not only was her face marked with red and purple bruises, but her chest, stomach, and thighs were also badly bruised.

  A pained grimace swept her features. A high-pitched screech that turned into a scream filled the room. The woman clutched her robe around her and shouted, “Get out!”

  Katherine put up her hands, palms out. “I’m sorry. We came to speak to Mr. Folsom. The door was open and we heard someone moaning and ran up here to help.”

  The woman wiped the sleeve of her robe across her eyes. “Get out!”

  “You look hurt, Miss. We can help.”

  “Get out or I’ll call the police.” She started crying.

  Paul walked forward, taking a business card out of his shirt pocket and placing it on the vanity. “If you need help, call me.” Then he turned and walked from the room.

  Katherine backed out after Paul, turned in the hallway and followed him downstairs. They made their way back to the car and drove away, heading back to Katherine’s place.

  “Did you see the bruises on her face, on her body?” Katherine asked once the house was out of sight.

  “Yeah. She looked awful.”

  “Folsom?” she asked.

  “I guess?” Paul answered.

  “The sonofabitch!”

  “Still think you can reason with the man?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Gerald Folsom sucked on a cut knuckle on his right hand. Probably shouldn’t have hit her so hard, he thought. He’d gotten carried away. The more she cried and pleaded, the more he was aroused, which only made him beat her more. But he’d almost knocked her out. He wanted his women awake and begging, fear showing on their faces, not unconscious. Otherwise, it just wasn’t any fun.

  He wondered briefly about the car he had passed after he left. A man and a woman. Older couple. Probably just taking pictures of his mansion. It happened all the time. People thought it was a friggin’ tourist site. He put the couple out of his mind. He had more important things to dwell on. Sanford Cunningham was due at Folsom’s offices at 10 a.m. to brief him on progress on the transition of ownership of Broad Street National Bank.

  Folsom hated the damned banking business. Too many employees, too many branches, too many customers, too much regulatory oversight. And then there was all that bullshit about CRA. Banks had to adhere to Community Reinvestment Act rules and regulations that essentially required lending institutions to “give back to the community” by making loans to disadvantaged borrowers, among other requirements. “Fuck CRA,” Folsom muttered. He’d made a lot of money off the Feds, but they were all a bunch of bureaucratic pantywaists who were concerned about two things only: Their jobs and their retirements. These assholes had been asleep at the switch while loans were being made to anyone who could fog a mirror. Now they were covering their asses by demonizing the bankers and taking over perfectly good lending institutions. Good for him; bad for the bankers; bad for bank shareholders; bad for the taxpayers.

  The Feds had “encouraged” him to buy Broad Street National Bank by threatening to not sell him any more loan pools. He’d been buying loan pools from the Feds at huge discounts, making tens of millions of dollars on each pool. Buy a $100 million pool at twenty cents on the dollar, or $20 million. Then strong arm the borrowers to pay up or forfeit their collateral. Even if he only collected $40 million from the pool, he’d doubled his money. The Feds were smart enough to realize how good the deals were they’d given him. Now they wanted him to come to their assistance. So, he’d forked over the bucks to buy this bank so the Feds wouldn’t have to come in and close it down, scaring the crap out of the average citizen and the politicians in Washington, and depleting the FDIC insurance fund. The last thing the FDIC wanted was another Indy Mac fiasco —panicked depositors lined up to get their money.

  Well, he’d collect whatever loans he could, liquidate the collateral on those he couldn’t collect, and then liquidate the bank or sell the franchise to some big financial institution that wanted a branch footprint in Philadelphia—one of the big nine banks who were in bed with the Feds. Too big to fail, my ass, he thought.

  He pressed the telephone button on his steering wheel and engaged his Bluetooth device, speed dialing Donald Matson’s cell phone number.

  “Hello,” Matson answered in a hushed voice.

  “It’s Gerald,” Folsom said. “Where are you?”

  “In ch
urch. Hold on while I go outside.”

  “Church, my aching butt,” Folsom groaned. “Probably begging God’s forgiveness for taking bribes to fuck over unsuspecting bankers and dumbshit taxpayers.”

  “What was that?” Matson asked.

  “Nothing,” Folsom said. “Probably the radio. What are your employees telling you about the Broad Street Bank transition?”

  “Everything’s going great. Cunningham’s a real pro. He’s done this at least a dozen times now, right?”

  “Three times since working for me; probably nine or ten times before that.”

  “So far, so good,” Matson said. “The transition is seamless.”

  “Good. I just wanted to make sure my friends with Uncle Sugar are happy. You check the safety deposit box?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “I had to use a bigger box this time. The small ones couldn’t hold that much money.”

  “Jeez, Gerald. Someone could be listening to this call.”

  “What? The National Reconnaissance Office is using a billion dollar satellite to track your conversations while rag head terrorists blow up people all over the Middle East, and retarded assholes from Africa stuff explosives in their underwear. I don’t think so. Go back to church. Put a large contribution in the offering plate in thanks for your new found wealth. But do it in cash and don’t write it off your tax return. Wouldn’t want Uncle Sugar to question how someone making a hundred-fifty grand a year can afford to be so generous. Oh, and give me a call when the FDIC has another loan pool for sale. I’m awash in cash.”

  Folsom punched the disconnect button without waiting for an answer and turned on his CD player. He cranked up the volume and pounded the steering wheel to the beat of Foreigner singing Urgent.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Edward and Nick met again at the company’s offices on Sunday. They’d reviewed the loan package they were taking to Curtis Bank & Trust the next morning. The meeting was too important to take casually.