Shell Game (Stand Alone 2)

by Badal, Joseph

  “You lost, man?”

  Folsom stopped and wheeled around. He glared at a twenty-something black man slouched against the wall to the right of the door and growled, “Do I know you?”

  The man’s eyes widened, obviously surprised by Folsom’s reaction. He pushed off the wall and straightened up. “Nah, you don’t know me. What you doin’ here?”

  Folsom jutted his chin forward, shortening the distance between the two of them. “None of your fuckin’ business,” he rasped. “Back off or I’ll embarrass you in front of all your brothers in here.”

  The younger man seemed to be considering his options. Without even turning around, Folsom knew that every eye in Frankie’s was on them. He’d whispered his challenge so the guy would have the option of backing down.

  “Tell you what,” Folsom added, again in a whisper, “I’m going to put an arm around your shoulder and we’re going to walk over to the bar with big smiles on our faces. Then I’m gonna buy you a beer like we’re old buddies. How do you feel about that?”

  “I could use a beer,” the man said.

  Folsom laughed, put his arm around the man and walked with him to the bar. He ordered two beers and asked the bartender if Frankie Jones still owned the place.

  “Frankie’s been dead some ten years,” the bartender answered. “I’m his son. This is my place now.”

  Folsom turned to look at the young man next to him. “Why don’t you take that beer over to one of the tables?”

  The guy clapped Folsom on the back. “Sure, man,” he said and walked away.

  “You handled that well,” the bartender commented. “I was about to pull out the baseball bat.”

  “I dealt with punks like that when I still lived in this neighborhood.”

  “You knew my dad?”

  “I loved your dad,” Folsom said. “He used to let me do odd jobs around here when I was twelve, thirteen years old. Taught me how to fight.”

  The bartender nodded. “Yeah, he was like that. My name’s Tyrese. Somethin’ I can do for you?”

  “Used to be a guy named Toothpick hung around here. He’s probably sixty by now.”

  The bartender smiled. “Bad guy, that Toothpick. Was short and skinny. Lot of guys underestimated him ‘cause of his size.”

  “He still around?”

  “Ain’t so skinny no more. But he’s still around. How ‘bout I call him for you?”

  Folsom smiled. “Appreciate it.”

  “I’d need some change for the phone call,” Tyrese said.

  Folsom kept his expression blank, but he was laughing inside. Nothing changes, he thought. “What’s the cost of a call today?”

  “Hundred bucks,” Tyrese said.

  “Damn inflation,” Folsom said, peeling off a bill from the wad in his pocket.

  Tyrese palmed the bill and shook his head. “Ain’t it a bitch?”

  The barman picked up a telephone receiver from the corner of the bar and punched in a number. He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and talked to someone for about fifteen seconds. After he hung up he said to Folsom, “Why don’t you take a seat over there? You won’t have to wait long.”

  Folsom suffered curious or threatening looks from the pool hall’s patrons, but no one challenged him. He sipped his beer and checked email on his BlackBerry. Only one message of consequence: Some customer of Broad Street National Bank was demanding a meeting with someone who could make a decision about his loan. Normally, Folsom would not have been bothered with stuff like this. But this customer was threatening to go to the media and Folsom didn’t want that kind of attention. Even though the deals between the Feds and investors in banks were legal, they could be perceived as unfair by the average citizen. He didn’t want a bunch of goody-goodies questioning the six different bank deals he’d done with the Feds over the past twenty-two years. And God forbid the deals he’d made on the loan pools he’d bought from the Feds at huge discounts became public knowledge. All thanks to his old friend Donald Matson.

  He heard the door to the pool hall open and saw two black men in suits and ties enter. One of the men stopped by the door and looked around like a Secret Service agent guarding a President. The other, a short, hugely obese man, waddled over to Tyrese, who tipped his head in Folsom’s direction. The man moved toward Folsom and said, “I hear you’re looking for me.” The man tilted his head to the side and squinted at Folsom. “You ain’t no cop, and you sure as hell don’t live around here, so what do you want?”

  “Jesus, Toothpick, what the hell happened to you?” Folsom said. “You look like Jabba the Hut.”

  The man’s face suddenly contorted in anger. He reached inside the pocket of the light-weight topcoat he wore despite the summer heat.

  Folsom chuckled. “You wouldn’t shoot an old friend would you?”

  His hand still in his coat pocket, Toothpick glared at Folsom and said, “No old friend be callin’ me Jabba the Hut.”

  “You used to call me a lot worse than that. Like white trash, punk ass, shit-for-brains fucker.”

  Toothpick stared harder at Folsom. “You sort of look familiar.”

  Folsom smiled; Toothpick had moved his hand from his coat. “It’s Jerry, man. Jerry Folsom.”

  Toothpick’s mouth opened and his eyes bulged. “Sumbitch! You be lookin’ uptown. Last time I saw you, you was waitin’ tables, or sumthin’ up on the Hill.”

  “Long time ago. A lot has changed.”

  Toothpick raised two fingers at Tyrese. “Whiskey, brother.” Then he sat down on a cane chair across from Folsom, somehow not crushing it. After Tyrese delivered two whiskey shots and walked away, Toothpick downed his drink and raised the glass at Tyrese for another one before he had even gotten back to the bar.

  “You always was crazy,” Toothpick said. “Guys used to try to kick your ass just to make their bones. Word got around you could be knocked down but you wouldn’t stay down.”

  “Tyrese’s father taught me that. Can’t show any weakness.”

  “Got that right.”

  Tyrese dropped off another whiskey shot, which Toothpick greedily downed.

  “But you ain’t visitin’ for old time sake. So what you here for?”

  “I have a need for someone with special skills, skills you used to have.”

  Toothpick met Folsom’s gaze. “I used to have all kinds of skills. But like you say, time has changed things. Jabba can’t do what he used to.” He smirked at Folsom. “Jabba the Hut, my ass. You a crazy mother.”

  “So I wasted my time coming down here?” Folsom asked.

  “Depends. You said you needed someone with special skills. I said I used to have them; maybe I can provide someone with those skills. Maybe you should be a little more specific.”

  “I have a couple problems that need to go away.”

  “That always means people problems. People problems aren’t easy to fix. Lots of risks. Can cost a lot.”

  “How much is a lot?”

  “We talkin’ high-profile people?”

  “Nah. A low-level federal government bureaucrat and a nobody woman.”

  “Ain’t no such thing as a nobody woman. Especially if it’s a bitch married to a guy with people problems.”

  Toothpick had always been quick on the uptake. “How much?”

  Toothpick showed a huge white-toothed smile. “Special price for an old friend. Ten grand each.”

  “Tell you what,” Folsom said. “I’ll add another ten grand bonus if you take care of business within a week.”

  “Ten up front; the balance after your problems go away.”

  “Agreed. Let’s go outside and finalize our business,” Folsom said.

  Toothpick struggled to his feet and moved toward the door, saying to Folsom behind him, “Don’t forget to pay for the drinks.” He walked outside laughing as though he’d told the funniest joke in the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Katherine forced herself to remain composed while she photographed Wendy Folsom�
�s injuries. Wendy, standing in only her panties in the middle of Katherine’s bright living room, showed no emotion while the pictures of her body were snapped. The young woman’s stoicism and determination gave Katherine the strength to do the job, as badly as she felt like crying.

  After they were done, Wendy went into her bedroom to get dressed while Katherine went to her computer and downloaded the photographs. She then ran off two sets of copies on her printer and packed them into two large envelopes. By the time she returned to the kitchen, Wendy was seated at the table drinking a glass of water.

  “Now what?” Katherine asked.

  “Would you call Mr. Sanders and ask him if he will go to the police with me?”

  “Of course. You know Paul Sanders is not a criminal attorney, but he can find one for you.”

  “I don’t want another attorney. I want Mr. Sanders.”

  Katherine shrugged and went to the kitchen telephone. She dialed Paul’s number and got his receptionist. “Mr. Sanders, please. This is Katherine Winter.”

  “Hello, Ms. Winter. Mr. Sanders has an appointment outside the office. In fact, he’s meeting with Mr. Winter and some people at Broad Street National Bank. Can I take a message?”

  “Please.” Katherine left her home and cell numbers. “Tell him it’s important.”

  Katherine explained to Wendy they’d have to wait for Paul to call back. “How about having some lunch while we wait?”

  “Sounds good. I’m getting my appetite back. Now I just have to get my life back.”

  Katherine smiled. “That’s what we’re going to do, Wendy.”

  Folsom reviewed in his mind the actions he’d taken with Toothpick Jefferson. He’d opened his jacket and told him to take the envelope out of his inside pocket. That envelope contained the $10,000 in cash he’d packed while wearing rubber gloves. He’d guessed the hoodlum would want some money up front. The dollar amount was a good estimate. Also inside that envelope was a typed note with two names on it: Donald Matson and Wendy Folsom. He had typed Matson’s office and home addresses below the man’s name. It embarrassed him to not know where Wendy was hiding. He promised to get that information to Toothpick as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Paul, Nick, and Edward got out of Nick’s Lincoln Town Car in the Broad Street National Bank’s parking lot and walked into the building. They skirted the lobby to the elevator and went up to the executive level, where Stanley Burns’ assistant met and escorted them to a conference room where Burns was already waiting. He stood but didn’t offer his hand to any of them, and he wouldn’t make eye contact.

  “You said we would be meeting with Mr. Cunningham,” Edward said.

  “Yes, yes, he’ll be here any moment.” Burns looked at his watch, even though a large clock hung on the wall in front of him. “Let’s sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Edward said. When Burns looked at Paul and Nick, they shook their heads.

  Edward sat between Paul and Nick on one side of the table. Burns sat opposite them. After ten minutes, thinking the bank was playing games with him, Edward was just about to get up and leave, when a man entered the room and introduced himself as Sanford Cunningham.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. Let’s get started. I only have thirty minutes.”

  Angry at being kept waiting, and at now being told the meeting would be over in thirty minutes, regardless, Edward started to stand, but Paul put a hand on his arm.

  “Mr. Cunningham, I am Winter Enterprises’ corporate counsel. I assume Mr. Burns briefed you on his conversation with Mr. Winter yesterday.”

  “He did,” Cunningham said.

  “Do you understand the implications of our meeting today?”

  Cunningham had so far showed zero emotion. “Of course. Your client has threatened the bank with going to the media if we don’t renew his loan and give him access to his deposit account.”

  “That’s not quite accurate, Mr. Cunningham,” Paul said. “Mr. Winter said he was prepared to go to the media if someone in a position of authority here did not agree to meet with him today.”

  Cunningham waved a hand as though to diminish the importance of the distinction Paul had made.

  “But let’s focus on what’s going on,” Paul continued. “In Winter Enterprises, you have a client that has met all of its obligations to the bank, has provided an abundance of collateral for its $20 million loan, even with the drop in commercial real estate values, and has maintained an average deposit balance of over $2.5 million for the last five years. Now, you refuse to extend your loan and have put a hold on almost $3 million of Winter Enterprises’ money, jeopardizing the company’s health and even its survival. I might be able to understand your actions, if my client had financial problems or presented a risk of loss to the bank, but that is not the case. So I have one question for you. Depending on your answer, we might not even take thirty minutes of your valuable time.” Paul paused and stared at Cunningham.

  “What’s your question?”

  “What is the bank’s real motivation here?”

  “I don’t understand,” Cunningham said.

  “Sure you do, Mr. Cunningham. You understand me perfectly. I called a colleague at the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation and she assured me the agency has not told any bank in this country to not renew a commercial real estate loan to a solid borrower. She did admit the agency has ordered banks to reduce their exposure to commercial real estate, but that can be accomplished by not making loans to new customers, by letting loans pay down in the normal course of business, and/or by raising additional capital. So, why would you want to drive away a borrower that has maintained a highly profitable relationship with your bank?”

  Cunningham’s cool demeanor seemed to melt just a bit. “We’re under a great deal of pressure here. We are doing what we have to do.”

  “I see. And what happens on July 29, one week from now, when your loan to Winter Enterprises matures and the company can’t pay it off?”

  “The bank has rights. We will obviously consider exercising those rights.”

  “And what about my client’s request of you to reduce his loan with Broad Street to $9 million, to release enough collateral to allow him to refinance $11 million at another lending institution, and to remove the hold you’ve put on his deposit accounts?”

  “We have considered your client’s request and have regrettably come to the conclusion we are unable to agree to his request.”

  Paul stood and looked at Edward and then at Nick. “We’re done here,” he said. He gazed across the table at Cunningham. “You’ll be hearing from us. The next time we talk, you’d better have legal counsel.”

  “Before you go, there is one thing more I want to discuss with you and your client,” Cunningham said, the steely look back in his eyes.

  Paul didn’t say a word.

  Cunningham filled the silence, “Our loan agreement with Winter Enterprises specifically requires your client to deposit all company sales receipts in Broad Street National Bank. Winter Enterprises hasn’t made a single deposit to their accounts here since July 15.”

  Paul gave Cunningham a bland look and said, “I can’t imagine what has happened. Of course we’ll look into that.” Without waiting for a response, he walked from the room with Edward and Nick following.

  In the parking lot, they stopped beside Nick’s car. “Well, that didn’t accomplish anything,” Nick said.

  “On the contrary,” Paul said. “I now know who has some decision-making authority. I know for sure that they are going to play hardball, that they must think you were bluffing about going to the media, and that they have an ulterior motive in this matter.”

  “How do you know that?” Edward demanded.

  “When you talked to Stanley Burns yesterday, you made a perfectly reasonable offer to reduce their loan down to $9 million, secured by over $20 million in real estate. Cunningham acknowledged that Burns had made him aware o
f your conversation, so he was familiar with your request. My conversation with my contact at the FDIC leads me to believe, despite the heavy-handed treatment the agency is employing with banks, they would not force Broad Street National to turn down an offer as reasonable as yours.”

  “What’s the ulterior motive?”

  “That we need to determine.”

  “So, where does this leave us,” Edward asked, “besides up a creek without a paddle?”

  “Well, not where we’d like to be, but we do have a few options. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but this is war. You’ve spent how much on advertising over the past eight years?”

  “Easily $10 million,” Nick answered. “About half with The Philadelphia Journal and the rest with a dozen neighborhood newspapers and half a dozen different area television and radio stations.”

  “Good,” Paul said. “That money won’t buy you a guarantee of editorial content, but it should at least open doors for you. Call your media contacts and make appointments. See if you can generate interest about what’s happening to the banks and the effects on the Philadelphia economy. Don’t make it all about Winter Enterprises.”

  “What about our money sitting in Third Community Bank?” Edward asked.

  “Just keep depositing your receipts there. I’m going to ignore Mr. Cunningham’s comment about those monies. What are they going to do, call your loan? They’ve already done that. When is your next loan payment due at the bank?”

  “Not until July 29, when we’re supposed to pay off the entire balance,” Nick answered. “Why?”

  “I just don’t want you to make any payments to the bank out of your Third Community Bank account. I don’t want Cunningham to know where your other accounts are.”

  “What are you going to do?” Edward asked Paul.

  “I’m going to call my contact at the FDIC and ask her a few more questions.”