“In other words, I could buy the $20 million note from the bank for $12 million without raising any eyebrows at the FDIC?”
“Or even less than that. They’re making sweetheart deals in order to get commercial real estate loans off bank balance sheets.” Cunningham frowned and added, “But why would you do that? I gotta tell you Jerry, paying $12 million of closed down restaurants and a bunch of furniture, fixtures, and equipment doesn’t make any sense.”
“Sandy, you’re thinking like a passive investor, not an entrepreneur. You’re thinking about our collateral as something to liquidate. Surely someone in the restaurant business would want Winter Enterprises on a going concern basis. You said Winter Enterprises made $8.2 million last year. Keeping the business open means an $8.2 million return per year on a $12 million investment. We could probably easily sell the business with the real estate for five times earnings. That’s $41 million. I pay $12 million to the bank and then turn around and sell the business for $41 million. Now that’s what I call a deal.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Carrie timed her arrival at The Towne House’s restaurant to make an entrance that would get Gerald Folsom’s attention, wearing a short black halter dress showing enough cleavage to be interesting, two-inch black heels, diamond stud earrings, and a diamond pendant necklace—all borrowed from her mother’s closet at her home, without her mother’s knowledge.
She saw Folsom seated in a booth toward the back. There were about ten tables and fifteen booths in the place—all occupied. She saw the appreciative look on Folsom’s face as she approached him. She suppressed a smile. Folsom stood and took her hand, helping her into the booth.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said, entering the other side of the booth. “You sure are worth waiting for.”
“Why, thank you, sir.”
They made small talk for a few minutes. Then Folsom asked, “What kind of work do you do?”
Carrie fed him a line about working in the investment department for a bank in New York City. She’d done her homework on the internet, so she was able to dump just enough facts about a real bank in New York City to sound credible.
Folsom then told her about his business, how he bought loan pools and banks from the federal government.
“I could sure use a pretty gal like you in one of my banks,” he told her.
“We should discuss that some time,” she answered. The, she said, “I assume buying loan pools and banks is a game the little guy can’t play in.”
He shook his head. “That’s right. The loan pools are often $100 million. Banks aren’t cheap either.”
“So, how many banks do you own?”
“Three right now. What I usually do is liquidate the assets of the banks I buy.”
“You don’t hold them long term?”
“Not usually since I have no interest in doing business with depositors and borrowers. I just want to buy the assets at a discount from the federal government, sell them at a profit, and then go on to the next deal.”
“Why does the federal government sell a bank to you if all you’re going to do is sell off the assets? Why does the federal government need you? You know, they could just cut out the middle man.”
Folsom winked at her. “You’re not just a pretty face, are you? Damn good question. The federal government doesn’t have the staff to do what I do. And it has no idea how to sell anything at market value. The government forces a bank to write down its loans and securities to a fraction of what the real value is, reducing the bank’s capital below regulatory requirements. If the bank can’t raise the required additional capital, the federal government takes over the bank and brings in someone like me.”
“Sounds like a bad deal for the original owners of the bank.”
“You could say that.” He beamed and added, “But a great deal for me.”
Carrie watched Folsom’s alcohol consumption. He was drinking scotch on the rocks and had finished three by the time their salads were served. She had ordered chardonnay and was still on her first glass. Folsom ordered a bottle of cabernet sauvignon with dinner – he ordered a T-bone steak, while Carrie had the petit filet mignon. He polished off most of the bottle of wine. She limited herself to one glass, making sure to drink at least twice as much water as wine.
After dinner, Carrie had a cup of coffee; Folsom ordered a Vin Santo.
By the time the check came, Folsom was slurring his words and his face had turned florid.
“How’d you like to join me for a drink at my place?” he asked after giving the waiter his credit card.
“I don’t know, Jerry,” Carrie said. “That’s not my style.”
He raised his hands, showing her his palms. “Hey, done get me wrong now; is jus coffee. I enjoy your compney.
She laughed and said, “On one condition. I drive.”
“Was tha matter? You think I had too mush to drink?”
“What do you think, Jerry?” she asked.
He scowled and then seemed to force a smile. “Okay, mebbe I had a lot to drink.” The waiter came back with the credit card receipt. Folsom signed and stuffed his credit card in his shirt pocket. He stood and wavered while waiting for her to stand. Then they walked arm-in-arm to the restaurant’s front door and out to the valet stand.
Carrie handed her valet ticket to one of the young men waiting by the valet stand and cringed inwardly as Folsom wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him roughly. The blast of breath he blew in her face smelled like a distillery. She shrugged off his arm and chuckled, saying, “Take it easy, big boy.”
Folsom mumbled something unintelligible.
After they got in the SUV and Carrie drove away, Folsom gave her directions to his place. On the way he said, “Sexy gal like you should be driving a Ferrari, not a truck.”
“I’ve heard that line many times before, but no one has put up the dough.”
“I could change all tha.”
“Promises, promises,” she said, laughing.
She stopped the car in front of the gate to Folsom’s estate and said, “Now what?”
“Aw, shit,” he swore. “My gate opener’s in my car back at the restaurant.”
“It’s getting late, anyway,” Carrie said.
He pointed past her and laughed. “I don give up tha easy. Pull up next to tha metal arm’n open your window.”
She did as he had instructed, punching in the four-digit code he gave her.
“Jeez, Jerry,” Carrie said, as the gate slid open and she drove onto the property, “What is this place?”
“Jus my humble abode.”
“Humble, huh?”
He directed her to the front door where she parked.
“Is this your house, or a museum?”
He laughed boisterously. “Maybe a little of both.”
Pulling out a set of keys from his pocket, he fiddled with the front door lock for ten seconds until he finally inserted the key and opened the door. He waved Carrie into the house with a flourish and closed the door behind her.
She wanted to play the dazzled young woman, but actually didn’t have to put on much of an act. The interior was spectacular, with a five-tiered leaded crystal chandelier that hung from three levels above. A staircase started from each side of the huge entry and wound its way upward for three stories. The rooms off the entry—a living room, a den, and a dining room—were each large enough to seat thirty people.
Folsom gave her a “follow me” wave and opened a closed door leading to an enormous kitchen with a black granite countertopped island at least twenty-five feet by twelve feet. The appliances would have been right at home in a first-class restaurant kitchen.
“You do much entertaining?” Carrie asked.
“Nah. I gave my architect a free hand in designin this place. I really only use four rooms in the place: The kitchen, my office, the bathroom, and the bedroom.” He leered at her when he mentioned the bedroom.
“How about that cup
of coffee?” she said.
Folsom punched a button on a coffee maker, which started to make whirring sounds. Coffee began pouring into a glass pot after a couple minutes. After the coffee had brewed, Folsom poured them each a cup, managing not to spill. “Wanna tour of the place?”
She smiled. “That would take a couple hours. I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh come on. At least my office’n bedroom suite?”
Carrie fully intended to see as much of Folsom’s house as she could. The more she knew about the guy and this place, the more likely she’d discover something she could use to her benefit. But she wasn’t about to make it easy for the guy, and she sure as hell didn’t want him getting the wrong idea.
She feigned looking at her wrist watch and then gazed at Folsom. “Ten minutes, Jerry, and then I’ve got to go. I don’t want my parents worrying.”
He sloppily crossed his heart and said, “I promise. Ten minutes.”
Coffee cups in hand, they marched upstairs, past the second level to the third. “How much help do you need to maintain this place?” she asked.
“Coupla gardeners’ n a full-time maid.” He shot her the same leer he’d shown her before. “But no one’s here at night.”
She followed him into a room half the size of a basketball court. Big game trophies were mounted all over the walls. Two stuffed bears stood on their hind legs in opposite corners of one side of the room, their front paws outstretched, their mouths open menacingly.
“Jeez,” Carrie exclaimed. “This is a scary room.”
Folsom put an arm around her, caressing her back. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll protect you.”
She slipped away from his arm, walked to a sedan-sized mahogany desk, and perched on the edge. Crossing her legs for full effect, she smiled at Folsom and said, “I’m impressed, Jerry. This is a real man cave.”
“No man cave is complete until it includes a beautiful woman. This room has never looked better.”
“Thank you. What’s next?”
“I’ve got an idea,” he said. He walked over to her and took her hand, pulling her off the desk. He led her to a four-seat couch and asked her to sit. “I’ll be right back.”
She looked around the room and marveled at the man’s ego. A fleeting thought crossed her mind: The tent she’d lived in while hiking through Azerbaijan on her last assignment. Quite a difference between that and this place.
Folsom returned after a couple minutes, carrying a valise. He hefted the valise onto the coffee table in front of the couch and said, “This is to show you I don’t bullshit, that I’m a man of my word.” He opened the valise and took from it a handful of wrapped one hundred dollar bills and placed them on the couch next to Carrie. He repeated this five times and, when the pile of currency was eight inches high, he said, “That oughta be enough.”
Carrie looked at Folsom and replied, “Enough for what?”
“For your Ferrari.”
“I know bullshit when I hear it. That may be enough money to buy a Ferrari, but not me. I’m out of here.” She pushed off the couch to stand, but Folsom placed a hand against her shoulder and shoved her back.
“If that’s not enough, how about this?” He lifted the valise and upended it on the couch, creating a pile over eighteen inches high. It teetered and then collapsed onto Carrie’s lap.
She knew the situation was quickly deteriorating. Folsom was a man used to getting his own way, and Wendy had told her he tended to get violent when he’d been drinking.
“I’ve had a nice evening, Jerry,” she said. “Up to now. I think it’s time for me to go.” She stood up and skirted the coffee table.
Folsom moved to cut off her escape. “I don think so.” He grabbed her left wrist in his right hand and yanked her toward him. “You need—”
Before he could finish, she spun under his right arm, breaking his grip on her wrist, and twisting his arm behind him, putting torque on his shoulder until he shouted, “What the fuck!”
But instead of backing off after she released him, he smiled and said, “Now you’re really turning me on.” He stepped forward and reached for her throat.
Carrie used his forward momentum to her advantage. She struck out with the heel of her right hand, striking Folsom over the heart with slightly less than maximum force. She didn’t really want to kill the guy since too many people had seen her leave the restaurant with him. But she did want to disable him temporarily.
Folsom went down to the floor as though he’d been poleaxed. He moaned and clutched his chest. Rolling back and forth on the floor, he gasped, “Oh, God.”
She bent down and held his chin so he would look right at her face. “You need to learn how to treat a lady, Jerry. Not everybody is into money like you are.” Carrie grabbed two handfuls of the one hundred dollar bills from the couch and dropped them on Folsom’s chest. “Sleep with these tonight.” She went back to the couch to grab her handbag when she saw a 3” x 5” card resting on one side of the bills. She bent down to read the hand-written words on it: 7/21/10. Placed the following amount of cash in this valise for safe keeping with Gerald Folsom: $1,000,000. It was signed Donald Matson. Carrie recalled that a Donald Matson had worked for the FDIC and had been murdered over a week ago. Her mind was spinning. Where had Matson got $1,000,000 and why was the money in Folsom’s home? She glanced at Folsom, still writhing in pain. She knew he’d be incapacitated for at least ten minutes. She picked up the card by its edges, holding it between her thumb and index finger, and dropped the card into the empty valise.
Folsom had gone out of the room to get the valise. She walked in the direction he’d gone and stopped in the hall outside the room. There were three closed doors on the opposite side of the hall. The middle door opened into a full bath. The door on the left was a file room. She went to the door on the right and walked into a vault. A dozen rifles and shotguns in a rack lined the left side; the right side had built-in drawers. She took a tissue from a Kleenex box on top of the drawers and wrapped it around her fingers. She then opened one of the drawers and found trays of gold coins, each in a plastic protective sleeve. The next drawer to the right held silver coins. She opened four more drawers and found more of the same. Then she opened another drawer that held what she estimated must be at least one hundred and fifty loose gem stones. Lots of valuable stuff, but nothing that appeared to be helpful in her quest to assist her brother . . . unless. For a moment, she wondered what a handful of jewels might be worth, but quickly put the thought out of her mind.
She turned to leave the vault, when she spied a valise on the floor by the door. It was identical to the one Folsom had just carried into his office. There was a tag on the handle with the logo of the Philadelphia Police Department. She’d noticed a similar tag on the case Folsom had brought into his office. Written on the tag were a date and a statement that a Detective Carruthers had opened it in the presence of Gerald Folsom, had not counted the cash, and had closed and tagged the valise.
Again ensuring that her fingers were covered by the tissue, Carrie popped the clasps on this valise and opened it. Like the other one, it was stuffed with bundles of hundred dollar bills. She wondered if there was a similar card in this valise and lifted out stacks of cash until she saw a white 3” x 5” card resting against the side of the case. This one had the same wording on it as was on the other card, except for the total amount of cash. This valise held $1,065,000, according to the card. It was also signed by Donald Matson and dated 7/21/10.
$2,065,000 in cash consigned to Folsom by Matson. Where would a federal government bureaucrat get that kind of cash, and why would he “place” the cash “for safekeeping,” as the cards read, with Folsom?
She started to replace the card in the valise when she noticed something else white on the bottom of the valise. She removed the stacks of cash and found two other cards on the bottom. These cards showed dates and amounts—one recorded inflows of cash, the other listed withdrawals. She studied the cards for a minute, memorizing t
he first ten dates on the first card. Then she replaced the cards on the bottom of the case, repiled the bundles of cash on top, closed the valise, and left the vault. She returned to Folsom’s office and found him sitting up against the side of a plush chair holding his arms against his chest, still moaning. Ignoring him, Carrie moved to the couch, carefully held the cash bundles by their edges, and stacked them on top of the card in the valise on the coffee table.
“What are you doing with my money?” Folsom whined when she stepped to the side so he could see the valise.
“I’m thinking about taking it with me. Reparations for treating me so badly.”
“That’s robbery. I’ll call the police.”
“Gee, what about my Ferrari?”
“Fuck you and fuck your Ferrari,” he groaned.
She pointed at the valise on the coffee table and said, “There’s your godforsaken money. You’d better lock it up before I change my mind and take it with me.”
TUESDAY
JULY 26, 2011
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Folsom felt as though he was having a heart attack. That bitch last night had hit him so hard that his chest now felt as though an elephant was sitting on it. It still hurt to breathe. He had never met a woman like her before. He would have loved to go a couple rounds in the sack with her. But then he thought that might not be a good idea, after all. She might kill him.
He was frustrated, angry, and in pain. He wanted to hurt someone. Folsom called Sanford Cunningham at 9 a.m. and asked him for the name and telephone number of the Hot N’ Chili franchiser.
“Mr. Mora please,” Folsom said into his telephone.
“Senior or Junior?” a woman asked.
“Whichever one is in charge of franchise operations.”
“That would be Peter Mora, Junior. I’ll connect you.”
After a few seconds, a man said, “Peter Mora.”
“Mr. Mora, this is Gerald Folsom, President of Folsom Financial Corporation. My company owns Broad Street National Bank in Philadelphia.”
Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) Page 20
