by Rod Helmers
“Fifteen million.”
“I’ll go twenty,” Rodger replied. The old men held each other’s eye and kept straight faces for as long as they possibly could. Then burst into uproarious laughter. It was a joke only a land rich but cash poor cowboy could truly appreciate. The stubbornness of their ancestors had kept the two ranches from being joined for generations. Now skyrocketing land prices would do the same.
“You gonna sell?” Rodger asked.
Chubbs sighed and scuffed his boots around against the saltillo tile of the ranch house floor. “All my kids have all left the valley, and they’re encouraging me to spend a small portion of their inheritance.”
“On what?”
“Hell. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll spend six months at one of those holistic fat farms. Get me a new pickup to get there in. Take Marilynn along for a nip and tuck. She don’t wear a bikini the way she used to, ya know.”
Rodger smiled sadly. “I’m serious, Chubbs. What do you want that money can buy?”
Now Chubbs was serious. “Ain’t about me, Rodger. It’s about my kids and my grandkids and maybe their kids. I’ll set up trusts for all of them. For their education and their first house. We’ve spent our lives scared to death, Rodger. Scared to death that it wouldn’t rain. That our pastures would dry up. Scared to death we wouldn’t be able to pay our bills. I don’t want them to have to live that way.”
“What about when it rains?”
“Huh?”
“How’d it feel when it rained? You know. When you knew it was going to be okay.”
Chubbs smiled. “You know as well as I do. It’s the best damn feeling in the world. But mine don’t want this life. I’ve got to face facts and be realistic. It’s time, Rodger.”
Rodger knew Chubbs’ health had not been good. He suspected that this was his way of telling him as much. Rodger stood and slowly made his way to the coffee pot, giving Chubbs a needed moment to compose himself.
“More coffee?”
“I’m good.”
Rodger refilled his own cup with no intention of drinking any more coffee. “What can I do, Chubbs?”
”I’d like Sandi to take care of things. You know. About selling the ranch.”
“Sure, Chubbs. I’ll have her stop by your house in town. How about you and I take a ride and check out your corrals up top. It’ll be roundup time soon.”
CHAPTER 10
The Palms Gracious Living Retreat was certainly not a nursing home. It was a resort. Sam thought that if one had to get old, this was the place to do it. Every resident enjoyed a private three-room suite with a well-landscaped courtyard. The sports complex included an air-conditioned Olympic size pool, tennis courts, racquetball courts, and even shuffleboard for the traditionalists. A coffee shop, café, full-service restaurant, and two bars were on site. Sam constantly found himself dodging wheelchairs as smiling and well-groomed aides pushed the residents around the complex.
Sam had been given a tour by one of these polite young men. Dr. Bob had remained in the limo claiming that he needed to return an urgent e-mail over the satellite internet connection. Sam and the aide found Dora Hufstedtler whooping it up with several other elderly women in the card atrium.
“That’s five-hundred, you old cow,” a frail but full bodied blue haired woman said as she sneered at her twin across the green velvet covered octagonal card table.
“Damn it, Edna. You’re a poor winner and a sore loser. And look who’s calling who an old cow.”
The rest of the elderly women at the table burst into uproarious laughter as they tossed their cards to the center of the table. Two elderly men loitered nearby attempting to attract the interest of one or more of the widows participating in the Friday afternoon card game.
The aide escorting Sam cleared his throat and interrupted the banter. “Mrs. Hufstedtler?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Ma’am, I‘d like you to meet Mr. Norden. He’s considering accepting a high level executive position with American Senior Security. He’s touring the facility.”
Dora turned to Sam and gave him a pleasant motherly smile. “What can I do for you, honey?”
Sam felt awkward as the eyes of the women at the table and the two men nearby all fell on him.
“Well, I was interested in meeting a policyholder, or uh client of American, and seeing if you felt, you know, if you felt that you were being treated fairly?”
The group looked at Sam with stunned expressions and again burst into uproarious laughter, with two of the elderly women pounding their fists on the velvet topped table.
The woman who had referred to her opponent as an old cow spoke up. “Look around. What do you think?”
Sam’s face turned red. Dora pushed her chair away from the table and motioned the aide over to help her get up. “Mr. Norden, would you mind helping me over to that table by the window. Where we can speak privately.”
The same blue-haired woman spoke up again. “Well, excuse me.” Then she directed her attention to the men off to the side. “Why don’t one of you old codgers sit in for Dora while she talks to the suit.”
Dora spoke first after she and Sam had sat down at the table by the window.
“Young man, American Senior Security is the best thing that ever happened to me. Not counting my husband Frank and the kids, of course. It’s the same for most of these people. It’s why you got that reaction over there.”
“I understand you owned a very nice home near the beach. Don’t you miss it?”
Dora smiled sadly. “Yes, Mr. Norden, I did own a home near the beach. A home I couldn’t afford to insure or properly maintain. Every extra cent I could scrape together went to pay the property taxes. It became a prison. No, I don’t miss it.”
Dora took a deep breath and continued. “Look. After Frank died I was lonely and miserable. I was waiting to die and I wanted to die. These days I look forward to getting up in the morning. I feel better than I have in a very long time. American Senior Security saved my life, Mr. Norden.”
“That’s wonderful, Mrs. Hufstedtler. It really is.”
“Mr. Norden, you couldn’t work for a better company than American Senior Security. You really couldn’t. And you would be helping people who aren’t able to help themselves.”
“I appreciate your time and your honesty, ma’am. I truly do.”
“Take the job, Mr. Norden. You’ll make your mother very proud.”
Ellen felt energized as she walked off the ship that had left Miami the previous evening. She had slept soundly even though the seas had been rough. Her cabin was on the lowest deck with a porthole, which was her preference. With the curtains pulled aside and her pillow pushed up against the thick glass, a full moon had illuminated the waves that slammed against her cheek while the ship was under way. It seemed to add an element of danger to her cozy accommodations.
She stopped on the concrete pier while the stream of tourists flowed around her. Her eyes, hidden behind stylish sunglasses, were closed as she turned her face to the morning sun. A large straw bag adorned with brightly colored flowers hung loosely in her left hand. The bag held the usual items a tourist took along on a walking tour of Nassau - sunscreen, a bottle of water, a wet cloth in a zip lock bag, and a little extra cash. Fifty thousand dollars to be exact.
When traveling to a foreign country with a bag full of cash, Ellen preferred the relaxed attitude afforded by cruising. Airline travel was far too inconvenient since 9-11. She had boarded the ship with nothing but a birth certificate and a driver’s license, both of which were easily manufactured by any number of entrepreneurial college students. Of course, no real effort was made to inspect her baggage. Cruising was not about getting from point A to point B without being turned into a terrorist missile. Cruising was about having fun.
The straw market at the end of the pier was bustling as happy Bahamians sold brightly colored junk at hugely inflated prices to tourists eager to part with American dollars. Ellen walked briskly and ignore
d the calls of the smiling entrepreneurs. She had an appointment on Parliament Street, which was a mere five blocks but also a world away from the straw market.
The appointment with Mr. Drummond at The Bank of Nassau had been made on the internet, courtesy of the free wireless signal at the coffee shop down the beach from where she was living in Miami. The internet was indispensable to anonymous commerce, but Ellen was acutely aware that every computer logging onto the internet is assigned a unique set of numbers called an Internet Protocol Address. She was aware that the number could serve as a virtual street address for any computer accessing the internet. Should anyone inquire, Ellen’s address was a funky coffee shop on South Beach frequented by hundreds of people every day.
Ellen crossed the street and entered a narrow cobblestone alleyway that wound its way to Bay Street. Bay Street was impressive if for no other reason than its stark contrast to the poverty that surrounded it. Several banks and boutiques served a wealthy international clientele. Ellen was always amazed at the high-end jewelry on display. The selection rivaled that found anywhere in the world. It was a combination of Wall Street, Rodeo Drive and a Middle Eastern bazaar. Commerce was being transacted at a feverish pace, but Caribbean flair made it all truly unique.
After a three-block walk down Bay Street, Ellen turned right onto an obviously more subdued and reserved Parliament Street. The Bank of Nassau was housed in an imposing structure supported by absurdly huge columns; columns that she couldn’t begin to reach around. The entire building was irreverently accented with the pastels of the coral reef. Ellen thought the whole look seemed to say that we take your money seriously, but were not terribly serious about how you acquired it. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking, she chuckled to herself. She pushed the huge brass door aside and entered the cool cavern of marble and mahogany.
“Ms. Hughes, I assume.” Dauntless Drummond was a huge black man with a deep booming voice. He spoke with the lilting yet precise King’s English of well-bred native Bahamians. He was impeccably tailored in suit and tie. His hair was closely cropped and graying at the temples.
“Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Drummond.” Ellen‘s hand was dwarfed by the recently manicured hand of the smiling banker.
“Please follow me, Ms. Hughes. May I offer you coffee?”
“Thank you, yes. Black, please.”
Ellen was escorted to a small but tastefully decorated office with no sign of personal effects. She assumed the office was available to whichever representative happened to be on duty. Or perhaps the bank officers were reluctant to mix their personal lives with business. Soon Mr. Drummond placed a fresh cup of steaming black coffee before Ellen.
“I understood from your e-mail that you would like to open an account accessible by the internet for international transfers. And that you would be making a small cash deposit this morning?”
“Yes. One could consider it a good faith deposit, although a transient one. I would also like to open an account to be funded at a future date. I would expect that account to carry a substantial as well as a more permanent balance.”
Ellen laid a neatly wrapped package on the desk after she finished speaking.
Mr. Drummond raised an eyebrow, but also appeared relieved. The customer before him wasn’t a complete novice and promised bigger things in the future. He motioned to a young and very attractive black lady who sat at a desk immediately outside the small office. She entered the office without saying a word and left with the package.
“Ms. Hughes, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that service charges attach to what you’ve described as transient balances.”
Ellen knew that outrageous service charges attached to hot money. There were two types of hot money - money doing the chasing and money being chased. Some money frantically chased interest rates around the globe, playing a dangerous game of arbitrage by borrowing at one rate and investing at a slightly higher rate, all the while praying that the exchange rates would remain favorable. Then there was the money that was being chased. Chased by governments seeking to tax it or freeze it or simply reclaim it for its rightful owners.
“Of course, Mr. Drummond, and I understand that those charges are negotiable. But given the de minimus amount involved today, I will leave it to your discretion.”
Drummond sighed and placed the palms of both hands on the desk between them and spoke as he studied the back of his hands. “Life in my industry has become so much more complicated since 9-11. Are you familiar with the Financial Action Task Force?”
Ellen was indeed aware of the international organization of member states whose mission was to set standards promoting anti money laundering programs throughout the world. The organization was also empowered to impose burdensome “countermeasures” on countries not making sufficient progress to improve regulation of its banking practices. The FATF Blacklist of Non Complying Countries or Territories had originally included as many as twenty-three nations, but now only Myanmar, formerly Burma, remained designated as uncooperative.
“Of course, but your country was removed from the FATF Blacklist several years ago,” Ellen replied.
Drummond again raised an eyebrow and looked at Ellen with renewed curiosity. “Yes, but we remain under very strict scrutiny.”
“I understand. The Cayman Islands are remarkably beautiful, but since becoming President of the Caribbean FATF, it has been a rather annoying nation state. The people I represent wouldn’t think of placing their funds in the Caymans, much less a Swiss bank.”
Ellen smiled and removed a Florida driver’s license, birth certificate, and Social Security Card from her bag, and slid them across the desk. She was unconcerned. All of the documents were forgeries and the social security number belonged to a dead woman.
“You are welcome to make copies. These should provide all of the information necessary to fill out your precious forms.”
He looked sheepish and again motioned for the secretary. “Will this information also apply to the unfunded account?”
“Mr. Drummond, let me make myself perfectly clear. This information has nothing to do with the unfunded account. A Myanmar company will be the accountholder.”
Ellen reached into her bag and produced an envelope containing sealed Letters of Incorporation for the Myanmar holding company, and then continued speaking as Drummond skimmed the document.
“I anticipate funding the account with an eight figure deposit. For whatever good it will do the FATF, the group I represent fully recognizes your institution’s obligation to disclose this information. It is such a pity that Myanmar is unwilling to similarly meet its international obligations, don’t you agree?”
Drummond smiled weakly and excused himself from the small office. After several minutes he returned with three slips of paper. He sat down behind the desk and pushed the pieces of paper toward Ellen.
“This is a record of your deposit, the identifying numbers of both accounts, and information regarding internet banking and wire transfer of funds. I suggest you commit the account information to memory and place any written record you chose to maintain in a very safe and secure place. Without these identifying numbers you will simply be unable to access your account or retrieve any funds. Please be aware that millions of dollars are forfeited to the Bahamian government every year. No exceptions will be made.”
Drummond then stood and revealed a brilliant and rather imposing set of teeth as he smiled broadly. “Now, it would be the pleasure of the president of our institution to make your acquaintance.”
Ellen also stood and returned his smile. “Perhaps another time. I’m late for an appointment with a rum smash.”
CHAPTER 11
“Are you ready to move in, Dawg?” Dr. Bob asked as Sam climbed back into the limo.
“I had no idea places like this even existed. It’s fantastic.” Sam replied.
“The oldsters love it here.”
Sam was finally beginning to relax for the first time that day. It was already after 3:0
0 o’clock. “Hey. This is the limo from Tampa. Isn’t it?”
Dr. Bob laughed. “Yeah. Didn’t you notice it when we got off the plane? Marc sent it down immediately after you were dropped at HQ this morning.”
“So the limo was sent down ahead of the plane just to take us from the airport to the elder resort and back again?”
Dr. Bob nodded and began to point his index finger, but Sam quickly raised a hand with his palm turned outward.
“I know. I know.” Sam stammered.
“You ever been to the Keys?”
“You mean the islands off the southern coast of Florida?”
“Those are the ones.”
Sam shook his head from side to side.
“Cool. Technically we missed a meal, you know. Maybe two.”
“We did?’
Dr. Bob nodded. “Brunch. No breakfast. No lunch. I’m thinking yellowtail snapper at the Blue Veranda. Key West.”
“Every general aviation terminal has its own unique subculture,” Sam commented seemingly to no one as he and Dr. Bob left the terminal reserved for the pilots and passengers of privately owned aircraft, and walked toward the Citation Jet.
Dr. Bob looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I took some flying lessons when I lived in San Diego. I’ve always enjoyed hanging around these places.”
Dr. Bob looked intrigued. “How many lessons?”
“I have my VFR ticket. In a little single engine four-seater. A Cessna 172.”
“VFR stands for visual flight rules, right?”
“Yeah. The instrument rating takes a lot more work and time.”
Dr. Bob studied Sam as they both settled into their seats. Suddenly he unbuckled his combination seatbelt and shoulder harness and jumped up.
“I’ll be right back.”
Dr. Bob returned with the copilot - a well-built man in his early thirties sporting a blond crew cut, a military bearing, and an attitude.
“The Captain would like to see you up front,” the copilot said tersely as he passed Sam.