“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, but thanks. If you keep handling things at the bank, it takes a lot of pressure off me.”
“You can count on me, Boss.”
“I know that, Sandy. Any matters I need to be aware of?”
“We could have problems with Winter Enterprises. The attorney is an asshole. He’s not going to give up easily.”
“Is he with one of the large Philadelphia law firms?”
“No, he’s got his own practice. Apparently, he’s worked for the Winter family for years. Guy named Paul Sanders.”
The name seemed to tickle Folsom’s memory.
“Well, stay on top of things. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Hang in there, Boss.”
After Folsom hung up, he tried to recall where he had heard Paul Sander’s name. It took a couple minutes, but he finally remembered his attorney, Jeffrey Rose, mentioning Sanders’ name in connection with the complaint filed by Wendy. Sanders had somehow been involved before Sylvia Young signed on to represent her.
But the name Paul Sanders rang another bell with Folsom, one he couldn’t place. He racked his brain to come up with another connection. But nothing came to him.
He was beat. He lay down on the living room couch, thinking maybe a nap would help. It took him only a few minutes to fall asleep and he was soon dreaming about his “Wendy problem” and Paul Sanders. At some point, his mind working overtime, he jerked awake, making the connection. Paul Sanders not only represented Edward Winter, he’d represented Frank Winter. Sanders had called him after Frank Winter died, trying to negotiate a favorable financial arrangement for Frank’s widow and children. He recalled laughing at Sanders at that time, asking him if he thought he was the United Way. “This is business, Sanders,” Folsom had said. “It’s not personal.” Sanders had responded, “It’s personal to me, Mr. Folsom.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Kelly Loughridge felt as though there was a little bird on her shoulder that kept whispering, “You’ve got to help Edward Winter, you’ve got to help Edward Winter.” She knew it had nothing to do with being a journalist, but she couldn’t keep the thought out of her head. She had come to the conclusion Winter was the victim of a political system and a federal government bureaucracy run amok. Even without corruption, the damage the federal government had done to the economy and people’s lives was gargantuan. Maybe it was stupidity and ignorance, rather than intentionally corrupt behavior. Or maybe it was arrogance. What was it that Einstein had said? ‘The only thing worse than ignorance is arrogance.’ Plenty of both in D.C.
She outlined the article she wanted to write and decided to start with how decisions made in D.C. created the economic problems. How the Federal Reserve kept interest rates low in 2003. How congressional committees headed by Senator Chris Dodd and Representative Barney Frank pushed Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac to invest in subprime loans, which ultimately went bad, undermining the capital markets. How one thing led to another, and how good citizens lost their jobs, lost their homes, lost their businesses, lost their investments, lost their dreams.
Then the story would segue to Broad Street National Bank and how Sol Levin, a popular and well respected man, lost his job and his bank. How the FDIC took over the bank, condemning Levin’s and hundreds of other shareholders’ ownership interests. Then how the FDIC sold the bank to Folsom Financial Corporation, which was owned by a man with an unusual relationship with a senior officer at the agency who just happened to be murdered last week. And how Gerald Folsom was charged with beating his wife. And then there was the hired killer she wasn’t supposed to know about. She needed to talk again with Paul Sanders about that piece of information.
Kelly had doled out targets for interviews to three reporters: One would go to Broad Street National Bank, another to the FDIC in Washington, D.C., and the third would interview Edward Winter and Paul Sanders. She also had an intern digging up information on Folsom. Then she would try to get an interview with Folsom.
She’d told her staff she wanted to go to press on the story by no later than Thursday. That was the little bird’s influence.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
While Katherine was visiting with Edward and Betsy at their home, Carrie sat down with Wendy in the hotel suite. They shared a fruit platter ordered from room service and tried to watch a Phillies game. But neither of them seemed very interested.
“You mind if I shut this off?” Wendy asked.
“Not at all,” Carrie replied.
Wendy lay back on the couch and stared out the window.
“How long have you been married to Folsom?”
“Too long.”
“Tell me about your husband,” Carrie said.
“Why?”
“Just curious. If you don’t want to talk about him . . . .” she trailed off.
Wendy looked back at the window. “Gerald is a good looking guy. Tall, dark hair, keeps himself in good shape. He was so damned attentive when we met. Treating me like a princess, sweeping me off my feet. Trips to Paris, San Francisco, Hawaii. Dinners at the best restaurants. Expensive gifts. I knew he’d been married twice before. Like me, they were much younger than Gerald. I would see them, once in a while, at the club or around the city.” She chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“They looked like they could be my sisters. About the same height. Blonde, blue-eyed.”
“All men have a preferred type of woman.”
“It’s different with Gerald. It’s not just a preferred type with him; it’s an obsession. He likes blonde, blue-eyed women from families with long histories and good names, but no money. It was as if he preyed on that type.” She paused and said, “You’d be a perfect candidate to be his next wife. You’ve got the look.”
“Did he abuse his other wives?”
“I can only guess that he did. He mentioned once he had sent each of his wives on her way with $5 million. Gerald made me sign a prenuptial agreement that gives me $5 million as long as I kept my mouth shut about anything personal between us. I thought that was strange wording, but I wasn’t thinking about abuse when I signed it. Anyway, the $5 million pre-nup kept us from going to a lawyer. At least until he beat me so badly.”
“When he got rough with you, did it follow anything in particular? Like an argument?”
“He tended to be a bit rougher, even in the beginning, after he’d been drinking. But, over the last few months, he got more and more violent, with or without booze.”
“How rich is he?”
“Hugely. Money is all he really cares about. And he never has enough. One of the reasons I brought a complaint against him is to damage his reputation, and make it more difficult for him to do business, to make money. But, even if he never does another deal, he’s got enough money for one hundred lifetimes.”
“He have any other interests besides money and spousal abuse?”
“Not really. Oh, he likes to hang out at a steak place named The Towne House. It has a bar separate from the restaurant. He knows the owner. Apparently, they’re from the same neighborhood. Grew up together. That’s where we met. He told me he’d go to this place between wives. Almost every night.”
They sat in silence for five minutes or so.
“You know things are going to work out, Wendy.”
“I wish I could be as certain as you.”
“They teach us that in the Army. You can’t very well take on a mission without feeling confident.”
“I’ll never feel that level of confidence until Gerald is locked up.”
“Or dead.” Carrie said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Katherine was asleep in her hotel suite bedroom at 8:30; Wendy retired to her bedroom at 9. Carrie waited until they turned off the lights in their rooms and then went to her room, changed into a pair of jeans, a white blouse, a blue blazer, and black cowboy boots. She closed the door to her bedroom, found her mother’s keys to the SUV, and went down to the lobby. She asked
the concierge for directions to The Towne House Restaurant and then went to the parking lot and drove away.
At The Towne House, she took a stool at one end of the bar and ordered a shot of scotch and a glass of water. She sipped at the water and hardly touched the liquor. She shooed away a couple young guys who tried to cozy up to her. One of them was persistent and ignored Carrie’s put downs.
“Come on, baby, you don’t want to sit here drinking by yourself.”
“Listen, asshole, that’s exactly what I want to do. And if I wanted company, I’d find someone with some class and balls. Now get lost.”
The guy wandered away, muttering, “Bitch!”
She had downed three glasses of water and barely any of the scotch after an hour, and was about to abandon her place at the bar. Besides, she was getting tired of the bartender’s nasty looks. She dropped $20 on the bar and swiveled around on her stool, preparing to leave, when she spied a fifty-something man enter the bar through the restaurant. He resembled the description Wendy had given her of her husband. Instead of dropping off the stool, Carrie swiveled back to face the bar.
The man took a stool in the middle of the bar, four places away from Carrie. The bartender brought him a beer and a shot of whiskey, without the man saying a word. Obviously a regular.
“How ya doin’, Mr. Folsom?” the bartender said to the man.
“Okay. You know.”
“I don’t mean no disrespect,” the bartender said, “but I hope your wife pays for what she’s doin’ to ya.”
“Thanks, Marty. Is the boss in tonight?”
“He went home a coupla hours ago. Sunday nights are usually pretty slow.”
The man took a moment to look around the bar. There were two men at both tables. He then eyed Carrie sitting at the end of the bar. He stared at his whiskey and then downed the shot, after which he took a pull on his beer. Then he looked up and eyed Carrie some more.
“Any chance of me buying you a drink?” he asked.
She shot him a warm smile, raised her scotch glass, and said, “Thanks, but I’ve already got one.”
The man moved two stools closer to Carrie. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”
“First time,” she said.
“Where you from?”
“Here, originally. I just came down for a visit with my folks.” She smiled. “I had to get away from them for a while. My parents treat me like I’m fifteen.” She hunched her shoulders and spread her hands. “I understand how they feel, I suppose. Only child leaves home and they’re rolling around a house the size of a small hotel. They’re just lonely, but I can stand just so much hovering.”
“My name’s Jerry; what’s yours?”
“Tammy Bryan.”
He raised his glass as though to toast her. “Well, welcome to The Towne House, where a lot of people come to escape all variety of things.”
Carrie smiled again. “What are you escaping from, Jerry?”
“I’ll have to get to know you better before I start spilling all my secrets.”
“Ah, the private type.”
He shrugged.
“What’s the matter, bitch; you can’t handle a man your own age?” It was the younger guy who had tried to pick her up earlier.
Folsom slipped off his stool and moved between Carrie and the man. “Apologize to the lady, and then go sit down and behave yourself.”
The guy looked twenty pounds lighter than Folsom, but was the same height and at least twenty-five years younger. He wheeled on Folsom, gave him a mad-dog look, and said, “You sure you don’t want to get back on your stool, Pops?”
Folsom half-turned as though he was returning to his stool, but then whipped back around and shot a straight right jab into the man’s nose, knocking him to the floor. Blood spurted from his nose as he struggled to get to his feet. A second man, shaking his head, came over from the table where the first man had been sitting and hefted him to his feet before leading him back to the table they had come from. The bartender brought a towel to the bleeding man and told him to get out.
Folsom returned to his stool and tapped the bar, signaling another round.
“I think I should buy you a drink for coming to my rescue,” Carrie said.
“It’s a deal,” Folsom said. “But only if you let me buy you dinner tomorrow night.”
“Seems like I get the better end of that deal,” she said.
“Not even close to being accurate, Tammy. Being seen with a woman as gorgeous as you will improve my reputation immensely.”
She giggled, play-acting a bit ditzy. “Dinner sounds great. What time?”
“How about 7?”
“Sounds good,” she said.
The bartender delivered the new round of drinks. Carrie watched Folsom finish his shot and beer, while she barely sipped her drink. Then she slid off her stool, leaving a second $20 bill on the bar, waggled her fingers at Folsom, said, “I’ll see you here tomorrow at 7,” and walked out.
Carrie went to the SUV and drove toward the Marriott Hotel. She reflected that she had gotten lucky with Folsom showing up. She hadn’t enjoyed being so close to him or role playing with a man she despised so much, but things had gone as well as she could have hoped. Even the young guy who had gotten drunk and approached her had helped things move along. Folsom was as charming as Wendy had told her he was when she first met him. Either charming or full of shit. Now she would let nature take its course.
MONDAY
JULY 25, 2011
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Nick Scarfatti and Edward sat in Edward’s office—Edward in a chair and Nick on the couch behind the coffee table. Nick briefed Edward on the state of the company’s bank account at Third Community Bank, where they had been depositing business receipts since Monday the 19th.
“There’s now $452,313 in the account. We’ve deposited $2.23 million in receipts. The difference has gone out in accounts payables, salaries, and wages.”
“Sales are up nicely,” Edward said.
“Yeah, we’re bucking the downtrend most restaurants are experiencing.”
“Have you heard anything more from Broad Street National about our deposits in Third Community Bank?” Edward asked.
“Not a thing. I don’t think they want to push that. Besides, between our real estate and our frozen money in Broad Street Bank, their loan to Winter Enterprises is more than secure.”
Nick sat in silence.
“What’s on your mind, Nick?” Edward asked.
“My job, Eddie. How the hell is this going to wind up?”
“Listen, my friend, you and I have been together a long time. Worse comes to worst and we have to start all over again, then that’s what we’ll do. You may have to be the bookkeeper for a while, instead of the CFO, and I’ll have to flip tortillas instead of being CEO, but we know how to grow a business. We won’t make the same mistakes we did the first time.”
Nick sighed. “If that happens, I’m going to have to tighten my belt. You won’t be able to pay me enough to cover my current bills.”
Edward cringed inwardly. “I’m sorry, Nick. I shouldn’t have assumed you would want to start all over again. With your education and experience, you could get a good job with another company.”
“Forget it,” Nick said. “I know what we’re capable of doing. Besides, this ain’t a job to me. I’m a shareholder here. We’ll make do until things turn around. You’re stuck with me.”
“Thanks, Nick. The thought of going forward without you by my side is not something I want to consider.”
“Hell, maybe the bank will come to its senses and extend our loan.”
“Probably not a healthy thing to hang your hopes on.”
“Yeah, I know. But it’s better than obsessing about the alternative.”
“You know there is one thing we haven’t tried,” Edward said. “I’ve always been my own boss. The thought of working for someone else makes me nauseous. But if I can save the business, and our employees�
� jobs, then I could learn to live with it.
“Hot N’ Chili’s got a franchisee in Florida with fifty-seven restaurants, one of their most successful operators. I’ll check with Pete Mora about how the guy’s doing and then call him in Florida.”
“Not much time left. Four-and-a-half days to find $20 million.”
“It’s worth a try.”
Gerald Folsom looked across his desk at Sanford Cunningham. “Go over the numbers with me.”
“Winter Enterprises has the rights to the Hot N’ Chili franchise for the entire state of Pennsylvania. It has twenty-four restaurants today and was just about to expand to the western side of the state. Sales last year were $58 million. Net profit before interest expense, taxes, depreciation, and amortization, $8.2 million. They’ve plowed their earnings into new store locations. Even at today’s depressed real estate prices, the company has at least $30 million in equity in their land and buildings.”
“So, when they don’t pay off the loan this Thursday, what happens?”
“We foreclose on the collateral behind the loan. The money they have in their bank accounts will offset nearly $3 million of the loan amount, which will leave a $17 million balance. The value of the franchise in this market is de minimis. The value of the real estate is significantly more than $17 million, assuming we could find another restaurant operator who would want the locations.”
“What about the FF&E?” Folsom asked.
“The furniture, fixtures, and equipment cost about $200 thousand per location. We’d be lucky to get ten grand for that stuff per location if we liquidate the business.”
“What’s the written-down value of the loan on the bank’s books?”
“Before we took it over, the Feds forced the bank to write down all of its real estate loans; this loan was written down from $20 million to $12 million. Under our Loss Share Agreement with the FDIC, the Feds would cover eighty percent of any sale difference between $20 million and whatever we sold the company’s assets for. For example, if we got $12 million, the Feds would write us a check for $6.4 million.”
Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) Page 19
