Howie Norris loved Washoe County. He had loved building it. As Jeep’s neighbor, the two of them had often cooked up ideas together, one of them being the now-famous school bus convention.
Funeral directors have a national convention wherein hearses are displayed by auto companies. Years ago, Howie had asked: Why not a convention for the purchase of state educational needs like transportation? Even after the idea took off, Howie stayed on as chairman emeritus. This year the convention was set for April 29 to May 1.
Highlights in his life since his wife Ronnie had passed away a few years ago included upgrading his herd of cattle and riding in the new school buses during their annual parade. When Howie was the vice president at Reno National he’d realized that Reno, with all its casino hotel rooms, could host all manner of conventions more easily than, say, Cleveland. He’d been a driving force in publicizing his beloved city. Anything bringing in clean money was a huge plus.
This last month, the cold and the continuing snowfalls had slowed Howie down a bit. He knocked out all his chores, but they took longer. And when he came back inside, it took longer to warm his bones.
He owned stock in Reno Sagebrush United, the latest version of his old bank. Meticulously he pored over his portfolio reports, as well as the bank’s annual statements. It made him so angry it helped him warm up after coming in from outside.
This afternoon, he called Asa Chartris, vice president of Reno Sagebrush United. Howie unleashed a fulsome barrage about what he considered, at best, accounting errors, and at worse, misappropriation of funds.
Accustomed to the old man’s outbursts, Asa promised to look into it. Howie had helped him in the beginning of his career. Asa owed it to him to listen but he also liked him. Most everyone liked Howie.
Slamming down the phone, Howie told Zippy, “Goddamned liars and idiots in Las Vegas. I used to run a bank, Zippy. You can’t tell me the numbers in this report are legit.” He jabbed the glossy, heavy paper with his forefinger, which made a little thud. “I know better, Zip. I think they’re overvaluing their assets.”
“I believe you, Poppy.” Zippy’s golden eyes registered deep faith.
“Know what I should do? I ought to commandeer one of those school buses in May and drive it right through their goddamned front door!” He let out a whoop.
“I’ll sit with you, Poppy. I can navigate. Your eyes are going.”
Fortunately, Howie only heard a murmur. If he’d known what his best friend was telling him, he’d have taken offense.
CHAPTER NINE
Twinkie, mouth clamped shut, stood in front of his new supervisor, John Morris.
Bunny lurched toward the SSRM supervisor. “One day. One fucking day!”
“You cost this company money,” John spat.
“One day.” Bunny repeated himself.
“You know the rules. Now get out.”
Bunny moved around the desk, yanking John off his chair.
Twinkie grabbed Bunny. “Come on, bro, he’s not worth it.”
“I’ll kill the fucker. I swear I will.”
John, on all fours on the floor, finally stood. “Get out.”
Twinkie dragged a shouting Bunny from the office. In shock, SSRM employees watched the two men. No one knew what had happened.
Down in the company garage, some of Bunny’s fury evaporated. “Now what am I going to do?”
“Nothing. For now. Let me think about it.”
“That shithead will get me for assault and battery.”
“I’ll talk to George W.”
George W. Ball, former director of Internal Resources, and their old boss, had been promoted to vice president because of an excellent record. George W. could handle the men in the field.
After two years of college in engineering, George W. had been hired twenty-three years ago. He studied new technologies for bringing water up from the aquifers, as well as new technologies for conserving water. He started repairing equipment, proved farsighted and resourceful and won promotion after promotion. His suggestions on which new technologies to purchase had proven sound. Thanks to years of field work, he knew more than the people who had their degrees.
“I got you fired, too. I’m sorry.” Bunny felt awful.
Twinkie shrugged. “Don’t know how much longer I could have worked for that bastard anyway.”
Leaning against the company truck, Bunny folded his arms across his chest. “I went back there. I saw that little girl. I figured what’s one day. One friggin’ day. So I turned the water back on and told the mother. You know, she cried.” Bunny looked up at his workmate and friend. “Tears me to pieces when a woman cries.”
“Me, too.” Twinkie nodded.
“Then I went back the next day like I told her I would and I turned the water off. What’s that bastard do, read every meter in town?”
“All he has to do is look at his computer screen. He was checking the units we turned off. Reckon he saw 141 Spring Street.”
“I should have lied. Told him something had gone wrong with the meter.”
“Bunny, you did the right thing. I wish I’d had the guts to do it. People shouldn’t have to live like that.”
Bunny slapped Twinkie’s hand in thanks. “Well, let’s get our shit out of this truck.”
Twenty minutes later, they’d cleaned out their personal tools, spent Frosty cups, paper bags, and a couple of cigarette butts. Bunny had tried to quit, but stress would eat at him and he’d light up.
“Fellas.”
They turned to see George W. bearing down on them.
“George, I fucked up,” Bunny admitted forthrightly, then smiled. “I just knocked John out of his chair. I should have knocked his teeth down his throat.”
George W. smiled, having no special love for John. “Feel that way sometimes myself. He’s not going to press charges. Give him credit for that.” George put his big hand on Bunny’s back. “Lay low for a week. Okay? Let me work on this. You’re the best damn team we’ve got. No one can break down a pump or fix a ruptured main line as fast or as good as you all. You’re SSRM’s number one team and don’t think I don’t know that you’ve had to perform chores that aren’t in your job description. I appreciate that and so does Darryl.”
“We don’t mind so much but it’s hard to turn off people’s water when they’re in the houses.” Twinkie spoke for both he and Bunny.
“I know, boys. I know. These are hard times. One of the reasons you’re doing some of this work.”
“John said squatters have no rights. Maybe that’s so, but George W., there are children living down there.”
“Yes, I brought that up and John’s reply, which I confess is difficult to argue against is, ‘If you have children it’s your responsibility to care for them, not other people’s.’ Cold, but he’s on Darryl’s good list. He’s already saved SSRM more money than Oliver Hitchens.” Oliver was the deceased head of equipment purchasing.
“Never thought I’d miss Oliver.” Bunny shook his head. “I’m sorry, George W., I’ve made trouble. I got Twinkie fired, too, but I couldn’t help it.”
He told George why he’d done it.
George W., a compassionate man and a father, listened intently, then a sly twinkle brightened his eye. “Now, Bunny, was the mother good-looking?”
Bunny paused, then grinned. “A peach.”
All three men laughed.
“Give me a week. I’ll get back to you and I’ll try to put a lid on this, too. Who saw you come out of John’s office?”
“We didn’t really notice. There were some people gawking. For sure, some folks heard me yelling,” Bunny said softly.
“All right.” He exhaled. “I don’t know what to do about the squatters. Like I said, these are hard times and it’s been a long, damn cold winter. Every now and then I’ll drive through on my way home. I know there are families in those abandoned homes. No heat.” He shook his head. “I pray every night that this economy will turn around. SSRM’s profits are down, whic
h is part of the problem. The Johns of this world think you cut people off right and left. Me, I don’t know. I keep looking for some middle ground. ’Course, it all depends on Darryl and he doesn’t know neither. I can tell you one thing, boys, no man wants to be president of a company that’s losing money.”
“SSRM can’t be losing money. It’s the only game in town,” Twinkie asserted.
“You got that right,” George W. agreed. “But SSRM’s known nothing but big profits. The readjustment will take some time. We’re still making money, but less of it. We can’t expect the same growth rate we’ve had in the past.” He checked his watch. “All right. You hear me? Lay low.”
The two partners watched the large, powerfully built man head toward the elevators.
“Think he can save our asses?” Bunny whispered.
“If anyone can, George W. can.”
Driving back to his place, Bunny couldn’t help himself. He stopped at 141 Spring Street.
He knocked on the door. Irene peeked through the window, then opened the door.
“Mr. Matthews.”
“Irene. Say, I don’t know your last name.”
“Sapolito.”
“Well, ma’am, I’m sorry I had to turn the water back off.”
“Please come in.”
He stepped inside the cold room. “Like I said I’m sorry. And I know it was cold but still it was running.”
“Thanks. We appreciated it.” Irene reached down for CeCe, who was leaning on her leg.
“I know this is last-minute but I was hoping you and CeCe might come to dinner with me.”
The biggest smile crossed Irene’s lips.
“Yes.” Bunny felt like a hero.
He got more enjoyment watching little CeCe eat a hot meal than he did from eating it himself. At thirty-eight, a little overweight, losing hair, he wasn’t such a good-looking man but he wasn’t bad-looking, either. Married young, he divorced in his thirties, tired of being told he was a failure. Why wasn’t he in the front office of SSRM? Tired of being told he was a lousy lover, too. He gave his ex-wife the house, the furniture, the car. It was worth it all just to be rid of her. He’d kept to himself after that. Bitterness faded to emptiness.
After dinner, CeCe wrapped her hand around his as they walked to his 2004 F-250. He lifted her onto her mother’s lap, but before he could close the big pickup’s door CeCe reached out, her mother holding her steady, and wrapped her arms around Bunny’s neck. She kissed him on the cheek.
CHAPTER TEN
Like most U.S. cities, Reno grew outward from the old town, which hugged the Truckee River. Some high-rises towered over the downtown area. A few attractive older residential neighborhoods provided an architectural contrast to the big ugly blocks. Apart from the huge casinos, businesses moved toward the east, and along the 395 north–south corridor. Spur roads off the four-lane 395 created ideal locations for shopping centers, car dealerships, and all manner of pleasant offices.
Lawyers, doctors, real estate firms, and brokerage houses favored these small commercial developments near the upscale shopping centers. Usually these were strips, but attractively landscaped nonetheless, the buildings perhaps two stories, painted ochre, peach, taupe, gray, or white. They often had shutters painted an attractive contrasting color. Many of these commercial places had been built in the last twenty-five years. Reno had boomed—thanks to Nevada’s lack of state tax and Reno’s business-friendly practices. A well-run business, most any business, could flourish here—although air-conditioning could be a surprisingly big expense for a company relocating from the Northwest or Midwest.
The airport, able to handle large jets and a fair amount of traffic, made it easy to ship goods in or out, as well as people.
Added to that was the road system, for Reno, unlike Boston or Richmond, truly developed after the dawn of the automobile age. Driving was easy, the roads were wide for the most part and traffic moved apace.
These advantages impressed themselves on Mags when she returned to her aunt’s ranch.
She had only to look across the border into California, with thirty-six point ninety-six million legal residents to witness an even greater economic disaster. Too many people wanted too much for too little. In the eighties and nineties when people began to head here from California, pushed by overpopulation and increasing regulation, they arrived with money and set up establishments. They lacked old Nevada ways, being a far cry from the self-reliant rancher of yore, but some entrepreneurs possessed energy, drive, and vision. Many were also generous. Charities benefited, the University of Nevada at Reno benefited, but then one would have to be a total idiot not to realize having a good university in a town is always a plus.
Mags had arrived before Yuletide with the shirt on her back, her career in tatters, and her ego badly bruised. However, the cycle of physical labor, working with her uncle and great-aunt, had helped restore her spirits. It also helped that her aunt believed falling on your face always led to something better—that is, if you pick yourself up and don’t whine about it. The other thing that somewhat mitigated the disastrous situation she’d left behind was that Mags had warned her bosses at the Wall Street brokerage house about the impending implosion. Her reward was derision. She was being criticized for being a woman, meaning she wasn’t the big-balled risk taker her bosses were. She should have walked out then and there. Hindsight makes us all highly intelligent. Mags looked back and it was all so clear.
Two of her ex-bosses were now serving prison terms. A once-proud investment firm with over one hundred years of history had died an ugly public death. Mags and many others lost their jobs, often their own investments, while the big bosses looked on and lied. Some investors lost everything.
Mags’s immediate boss, Carl Dobbins, stood by her. Both escaped with their reputations intact but not their bank accounts. Carl left the business to start a hydroponic farm in New Mexico. His wife’s savings staked them. He kept in touch with Mags and suggested she interview at Davidson and Fletcher, a Reno brokerage house. He said he’d put in a good word for her.
Alfred Norcross, the third generation to run Davidson and Fletcher, hired her part-time. Three generations is a long time in Reno. It gave the firm luster and prestige. Mags worked Tuesdays and Thursdays; her initial task was research, at which she excelled.
Living off Jeep tormented the young woman. Even though her great-aunt loved having her under her roof, Mags knew she had to contribute money, pay for food, and do many little things that required cash. She didn’t want to go back into the business world, but it was what she knew best and she had a gift for it. Perhaps her greatest gift was not following the herd. Also, Mags didn’t need to show off.
She still wanted to learn to repair old cars, cars built before computer chips, and she was looking at local night schools. But for now, she was happy to bring in a little money.
Good as Davidson and Fletcher was, the attrition rate had been high. One senior partner died of a heart attack, apparently natural, and three of the young Turks had recently left. They’d made money for the firm while there, but when this year’s bonus pool looked shallow, they jumped ship. There was room for Mags.
Her task was investigating banks, rating them as to their investment potential. Untying this Gordian knot took immense research skills and contacts in New York and Washington, some of which she had, as well as an instinct for uncovering unexpected results, good and bad. After her experiences in New York, Mags knew where to look for those surprises in the books, especially the ones involving corruption.
At the moment she was poring over the numbers of a local bank buyout. Reno Sagebrush United had bought Truckee Amalgamated, an institution that made a habit of bad loans to anyone who could breathe.
She called Carl Dobbins, who answered on his cell. “Mags.”
“Carl, are you out there in the cold?”
“No, I’m in the greenhouse. You know, I wish I’d done this when I turned forty, but hey, I’m doing it now. How do you
like Davidson and Fletcher?”
“A lot. Good people. Solid. Yes, clients’ portfolios have lost value but not nearly as much as the market and a few have grown. That impresses the hell out of me.”
“Well, I went to Cornell with Buck Davidson. He was solid then, although a party animal on the weekends. ’Course, so was I.” Carl laughed. “What can I do for you?”
“Think. Let me throw some stuff at you and you don’t need to answer. Just think about it. I’m researching bank buyouts and trying to untangle the massive foreclosure mess.”
A brief silence followed.
“People have lost their homes. The bad lenders got a slap on the wrist. The banks absorbing those bad lenders get money from the government and money again when the homes sell, while the original mortgage holders lose everything,” Carl said after a moment of thought.
“I see you haven’t totally left the business?” Her voice lifted.
“Oh, yes, I have. I’m alert. I read. I think, but I know no matter what I do I can’t fight City Hall. And I’m not going to squander what’s left of my life trying. The hell with all of them.”
Mags sighed. “I understand.”
“On top of all of this, Mags, home ownership is falling. In 2004, sixty-nine-point-two percent of Americans owned their homes. Now it’s sixty-six-point-nine percent and it will continue to fall, and new construction will keep falling with it.”
“Read those statistics, too.”
“The other thing, beautiful, is the government is not about to leave mortgaging to the private sector. They are every bit as responsible for this mess as the lenders but, oh, how very useful to pass the buck, literally. They will continue to hide behind the failed banks, continue to use the big banks for political purposes. As for Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, I can’t even discuss them without recourse to extreme profanity.”
“Carl, whenever someone passes the buck, some of it sticks. You know? I do find buyouts fascinating though.”
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