by R. B. Conroy
Vito coughed nervously, “What about the policy changes you made when he was of town? Is he on to that?”
“Yes, he grilled me about it this afternoon. He’s madder than hell.”
Vito sat up in his seat. “Now listen to me, Barnes. You said this was an iron clad deal. You said you had it all figured out—I don’t like what I’m hearin’!”
“It’s under control, Vito—just calm down! We’ve just got to go over a few things, that’s all.”
“Like what?”
“Be sure all your filings with the Securities and Exchange Commission for branch approvals are complete and up-to-date. Contact all your branch managers and tell them to avoid calls from Alex’s office or his accounting firm. He might try to dig deeper. If you notice anything out of the ordinary, call me right away.”
Vito squirmed, “You’re makin’ me nervous, Barnes, and I want to know what’s up.”
Vito’s interior light came on, illuminating the garage as he crawled out of his car and made his way to the back door in the darkened garage. The hood felt cool on his hands as he felt his way around the vintage Corvette, eventually finding the doorknob to the back door. He stepped inside, his phone pushed to his ear.
“Just do what I say Vito.”
“Okay, okay I’ll have Claudia check all of our branch filings in the morning and I’ll call the managers.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
There was a click on the other end of the line. Vito stood staring at his cell phone for a moment and then walked nervously across his large kitchen into the family room. He glanced down the hall toward the master suite. His wife always left their bedroom door ajar. The room was dark. She fell asleep quickly after reading each evening; he could hear gentle snoring sounds coming from the room. He hurried back to the kitchen; perspiration was beading up on his forehead. He removed a handkerchief from his pant pocket and dabbed his brow dry. He pushed the speed dial on his BlackBerry and began pacing in front of the large island in the middle of the kitchen.
“Vito?’
“Yeah.”
“Everything okay? It’s eleven-thirty.”
“I know, I know. Did I wake you?”
“No, you’re lucky. I was up watching a rerun of a Pacer’s games from last season and they’re getting their butts kicked.”
“You and those Pacers.”
“Just a minute.”
Vito could hear the click of a light switch, some rustling around and then the snap of a cigarette lighter. There was a pause and then a deep exhale. “Okay, I’m ready, go ahead.”
“That’s a bad habit, you need to quit.”
“Mind your own business.”
Vito laughed nervously, “Barnes just called and said Alex may be turning up the heat. Barnes says he’s not happy.”
“About what?”
“The subprime mortgages Midwest has been originating as a result of that meeting last summer.”
“Oh that meeting when Alex was in Europe. I thought Alex was brought up to speed about that.”
“I guess not.”
“Hmm…I’ll bet he is mad.”
“Alex is one tenacious son-of-a-bitch. He’s not going to take this lying down.”
“What can I do about it, Vito?”
Vito opened a cabinet door and pulled out a bottle of Seagram’s. He splashed the brownish liquid into a small glass and dumped it in his mouth.
“Well…un nothing I guess, I just thought you might know something.”
“Well I don’t. You’re on your own on this one, buddy.”
“Do me a favor will ya?”
“I’ll try.”
“Let me know if you hear anything.”
“Oh no!” There was a deep exhale, the ashtray rattled.
“What’s the matter?” Vito asked.
“The Pacers lost by fifteen.”
“You’re hopeless,”
“Goodnight Vito.”
“Goodnight.”
Chapter 6
Louie slapped frantically at the screaming radio. He cursed the loud, obnoxious sound that he heard every morning, but it was the only sound that was loud enough to wake him. It was the third slapping and the one that usually got him going. He peeked over the covers and looked around the room, as if somebody might be watching him. Then he yanked his blankets back, exposing his rotund torso to the empty room. Rolling to the edge of the bed, he ran his hands through the thinning gray strands on his balding skull, yawned loudly and pushed his arms to the ceiling.
After what seemed an eternity of just sitting and staring into space, he stumbled into the bathroom, passing gas along the way. Once inside the small room, he turned the water on to just the right temperature, slipped off his baggy pajamas, tossed them onto the nearby hamper and stepped into the shower. A guttural rendition of the old favorite “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” soon filled the air. Italian by descent, his mom was part Irish and taught him the song as a boy and he loved it. No other song ever came to his mind in the shower.
After several minutes of butchering his mom’s favorite tune, he quickly punched the shower off, pushed the plastic shower curtain back and groped frantically for any sign of a towel on the nearby rack. Coming up empty, his arms collapsed around his shivering, naked body as he hurried over and snatched the only remaining bath towel from the linen closet. He wiped himself dry, draped the towel around his paunchy midsection and prepared to shave.
He grimaced as he looked at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror and pushed his thinning gray hair off his forehead. He snatched his old Norelco from its corroded charger on the counter and began pushing it around his cherub face, missing several spots in the poorly lighted room. He would shave off the little colonies of hair he missed later in his office with an old razor he kept in his desk just for that very reason.
After shaving, he slipped into his boxer shorts, lifted a crinkled blue dress shirt from the small bedroom closet, pushed up the collar, grabbed the obligatory red tie from the tie rack, created a crooked half Windsor knot and pulled it tight. Next, he lifted yesterday’s gray slacks from a nearby door knob and pulled them on. He slipped on a pair of stretch socks and his brown loafers and hurried to the kitchen.
Outside, he could hear the rush hour traffic rumbling past. He shot a glance at his watch. It was a little after 7:30 and with a twenty minute commute to work, he had little time to spare. This usually meant a strawberry pop tart, his breakfast of choice each day. Louie, a creature of habit, liked to keep things as simple as possible.
A moment later, with pop tart in hand, he rushed to his carport and jumped into his 1998 red Ford pick-up. After backing carefully onto the always busy West Armitage Street, he headed east toward the nearby Kennedy Expressway. The old Ford jerked as he pressed hard on the accelerator. His destination was Midwest Consolidated Bank, on the corner of Harlem and West Fullerton in the Elmwood Park district on Chicago’s West Side. Only a ten minute drive in low traffic, in the morning rush hour it became twenty or twenty-five.
This had been Louis “Louie” Campano’s daily ritual for over forty years. He took over Campano Federal Savings Bank back in 1979 from his retiring father. His father had opened the office in 1929 with a five hundred dollar loan from a friend. Through hard work and diligence, Louie’s father had built up the assets to more than two hundred million when he turned it over to his son. Louie, very popular in the predominantly Italian community, had increased the size of the savings bank to nearly five hundred million dollars when his board decided in 2000, much to his objection, to sell the bank to Midwest Consolidated. Still single, the job at the bank was Louie’s life—a life that had become much more difficult since the merger with Midwest.
The large metal sign ahead read ‘Reserved for President,” as the dusty truck jerked to a stop. Louie looked in the rear view mirror, removed his glasses and pawed away some pesky eye-puck before exiting his modest vehicle. He then hurried into the back door of
the bank and ducked down the back hall.
The main lobby of the bank was a beehive of activity, with a small army of tellers gabbing with one another as they carefully counted their cash allotments for the day. In the many offices near the teller area, loan officers were busy reviewing files and discussing complicated issues with the secretaries before the doors opened at eight o’clock.
Louie glanced at the busy scene and then ducked into his dimly lit office near the back door. His secretary, Ava, always turned on the light on his desk when she arrived at 7:00 sharp. Later, she would return and lay hand-written notes on his desk concerning his day’s activities. The worn leather chair creaked as Louie’s large frame fell in it. He reached forward for the notes and began reading them. Soon a scowl appeared on his face. “Bad day,” he murmured to himself, as the always dependable Ava, stepped in his office.
“Good morning, Mr. Campano.”
“What’s good about it?” the usually congenial president groused.
“I know, Louie—Jack Montrose.” A trusted confidant for over thirty years, Ava could get away with calling her boss Louie after her initial salutation in the morning. Louie didn’t mind—she was a great employee and a true friend and she never addressed him that way outside his office.
“More file maintenance I guess.”
Ava shook her head.
Jack Montrose, an old friend of Barnes, had taken over as the main bank’s controller a few months after the merger was completed in 2000. Louie had lobbied to keep his local controller, Paul Rizzo, a trusted associate for over forty years, as his controller in Elmwood Park. But for some unknown reason, Rizzo suddenly resigned two weeks later. It was one of the first indicators for Louie about the nature of bank take-overs. All the promises of ‘working together’ and ‘mutual respect’ were soon forgotten as Midwest began to sink its talons deeper into the bowels of his beloved bank.
Now, it was ten years later, and Louie had very little say about the day to day operations of his bank, except in the area of employee relations and small personal loans. It was demoralizing and frustrating and he hated it. And to make matters worse, Jack Montrose had been on a campaign of “routine” file maintenance on all of his accounts for the past several weeks.
Not well schooled in accounting principals, Louie had very little idea what was going on. He and his father had taken on the role of being mainly public relations people—the bank’s faces in the city. Neither of them knew much about the nuts and bolts part of the business; they had always left that up to their controller, Rizzo. Recently, over lunch, Rizzo had warned Louie that the file maintenance Montrose was doing seemed out of the ordinary to him, but Louie thought it was just sour grapes on the part of Rizzo. Like so many times before, today’s visit by Montrose was unexpected. And, as the note indicated, had not been announced to Louie and his staff until after the close of business the day before.
“I guess there is a lot of new accounting stuff coming down the pike these days,” Ava reassured.
“Seems like it,” Louie replied. “Wonder why we always get Montrose?” The other managers tell me that they rarely see Jack.”
Ava smiled at her perplexed boss, “Don’t know, Louie—maybe he just likes us.”
“Maybe so.” Louie shuffled through Ava’s notes. “Well….uh who’s first on my appointment schedule today?”
“The United Way Chairman is coming in at 8:30. He wants us to commit a little more per employee this year, says they’re having trouble meeting their goal.”
“Another important meeting,” Louie murmured.
“What was that?”
“Oh nothing. What else is on the agenda?”
“HR wants to meet with you at 10. The tellers are complaining about the increase in their health insurance premium. They say it’s more than their raise.”
Louie shook his head, “Tell them to call Indy. Is that it?”
“You have a two o’clock with Butch Ferinni, says he wants to put a pool in his backyard. Says he tired of ‘sweating his ass off all summer.’”
“Hope they don’t find any bodies when the dig up his backyard.”
“Louie!” Ava scolded. “Butch loves you!”
“I know,” Louie smiled warmly at his old friend. “Thanks, Ava.”
“For what, Louie?”
“Oh, just about everything I guess—setting my schedule each day, opening my office in the morning, trying to put a nice spin on everything. You’re a wonderful friend; you make my life here tolerable.”
The face of the modest secretary turned instantly red.
“Why don’t you take Friday off? You’ve been putting in a lot of hours lately.”
A huge smile exploded on Ava’s face. She clasped her hands together, her thin body wiggled in excitement. “Oh thank you! My sister is coming in from Milwaukee, that would be perfect! What a nice surprise, thank you so much Louie!”
“Thank you, Ava.”
As an excited Ava exited the room, Louie’s office line lit up. “Yes, what is it?”
“Mr. Montrose just arrived and would like to go over a few things with you in the board room.”
“Be right there.”
Chapter 7
“Strom?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Alex.”
“Hi Alex.”
“Can you meet me on the circle for lunch in a few?”
“Yeah, sure Alex. Usual place?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thanks.”
Alex hit Erica’s line.
“Yes Mr. Crane?”
“Would you call Blue and Gates and see if Ted can meet Strom and me for lunch at the Circle Deli?”
“Certainly, sir.”
………
Alex walked briskly down Meridian Street toward the thirty story Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument. He turned left off Meridian onto the circle drive that bordered the monument and headed for his impromptu luncheon with Strom and his bank’s attorney, Ted Blue.
Several passers-by nodded as he made his way down the busy sidewalk to the Circle Deli. Alex loved Indianapolis; it was big enough to provide many of the cultural advantages so often identified with the big cities while still maintaining its small town charm. As he maneuvered along the wide sidewalk, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Hey, big guy.”
Alex turned to see his stylishly dressed attorney, Ted Blue, who was just a step behind.
“Hi, Ted. Did Erica get ahold of you?”
“Yeah, I was here at the Title Company finishing up a mortgage closing, so it worked out great. But there is only one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The meeting is over lunch so I can’t bill you.”
“When did that ever stop you?” Alex grinned at his old high school friend. Ted was a full partner in the largest and most successful law firm in Indianapolis. Graduating with honors from the IU School of Law, he was one of the most sought after legal minds in town. Alex felt fortunate to have him as his lead counsel at Midwest. A man of integrity, he trusted his old friend completely and loved his aggressive, take no prisoners, style.
The two men walked a short distance and then left the busy sidewalk and entered the Circle Deli. The restaurant’s friendly greeter, Monica, smiled warmly.
“Hello, Mr. Crane.”
“Good morning Monica, and how are you?”
“Just fine. Thank you, Mr. Crane. Mr. Winslow is already here and he’s sitting at your favorite table.”
“Oh great.”
“Follow me.”
“Lead the way.”
The men fell in behind Monica as she wove her way through the crowded restaurant. Several of the businessmen and women in the room nodded at the well known men. As they approached the table, Strom was busy reading the menu and didn’t notice them.
“Hello Strom.”
Strom looked up from the menu, “Oh, hi, Alex.” The two shared a vigorous handshake.
The ritual duplicated itself with Ted.
“You’re early, Strom. You’re getting fast in your old age,” Ted quipped.
“Old age! Want to arm wrestle smart-ass?” Strom retorted. A broad grin broke out on his wrinkled face.
“I wouldn’t do it, Ted. You were a punter in high school. Strom was an all-state tackle.”
“I’ll pass.” Ted smiled at a grinning Strom.
Alex lifted his menu. “What’s good today?”
“They have ham and Swiss with a cup of minestrone on special,” Strom offered.
“Sounds good to me,” Alex replied.
“Me too,” Ted said as both men tossed their menus on the table.
Just seconds later, the smiling waitress approached them. “Oh boy, my three favorite dirty old men are here today,” she joked as she banged three sweaty glasses of water on the table.
“Hey! We’re not all old, Libby!” a smiling Alex exclaimed.
“You’re old to me, Mr. Crane.” she retorted.
The powerful men laughed out loud; they loved being brought down to size and the feisty Libby never disappointed.
“What’ll it be, fellas? I ain’t got all day!” The cheeky waitress kept the needle in.
“We’ll have three of those ham and Swiss specials,” Alex said. “And give me the check please.”
“Will do, Mr. Crane. Just water to drink?”
“I’ll have an ice tea,” Ted said.
“Thank you, fellas.” The waitress finished her notes and hurried off.
Alex’s expression changed quickly after the fun exchange with Libby. He looked directly at the other men. “I’m a little pressed for time so I’ll get right to the point. Gentlemen, I think we may have a problem brewing at Midwest.”
Their smiles faded, the men listened intently.
“You’re both aware that I want to pay back the TARP money to the Feds in its entirety.”
The men nodded.
“Strom and I have already had a few lengthy conversations about this recently so let me bring you up to speed Ted. If you have any questions or comments, please feel free to jump in at any time.”