“You’re right.” He thought a bit. “I think the Spring Street plan has a chance. May I pass this on to Alfred?”
“Of course.”
“You know, you have a real problem with Patrick Wentworth. Now with this young man being found yesterday, well”—he paused—“I heard your dogs found him.”
“Yes, they did.” Through Pete Mags had learned a bit more about Brad Heydt. “He was a runaway from Ukiah, California. His family refuses to claim the body.”
Greg’s face registered surprise. “No wonder he ran away.”
“I have a friend in the Sheriff’s Department. They contacted child services over there and I guess the boy had often gone to them for help, but as you know, children have a hard time convincing adults. With nowhere to go, he finally ran away at age fifteen. He’d been sexually abused by his uncle and there is some speculation that his father abused him.”
“Shoot them.” Greg’s jaw tightened. “I’m sorry. I have no compassion for anyone who abuses a child. And if anyone touched my daughters—they’re now twenty-eight and twenty-six—I’d still kill them. I wouldn’t think twice.”
“Greg, a lot of people feel that way. But as you said, Wentworth can create problems for us by identifying this area as unsavory.”
“I guess things like this always happened. We just didn’t know about them.”
“Or if we did, we turned the other way. But then again, people took care of things in their own fashion, as you would. Right?”
“Right.” He stood up, stretched again, remained standing.
Mags stood up. “One more item. This foreclosure mess is one domino hitting another. Reno can’t collect property taxes from defaulters.”
He put his palm in the small of his back. “That will affect services. A drop in tax revenue always does. And remind me again, five-point-two million homes still in foreclosure. Nationally?”
“Right. Most banks are terrible investments right now.”
“Are any of the foreclosed homes occupied by the mortgagee, not the squatters?”
“Yes. No hard numbers. Some states, like New York and Florida, have tremendous legal roadblocks for the foreclosure process—not the least being the amount of time and legal fees it takes to actually evict a defaulted tenant.”
“Here?”
“Mostly, people got upside down on their mortgages, handed the keys to Truckee Amalgamated or Western United, and walked away.”
Greg’s eyebrows shot upward. “I see. Well, thank you for your report. We’re a long way from crawling out of this mess.”
“In housing and banking we are, but I know the rest of the people here will find some companies to recommend.”
He smiled. “That’s our job. If people don’t invest in America, we don’t have America.”
Mags left the office. While she deeply believed in American ingenuity and the ability of regular people to solve big problems nationally, she believed that faith in Wall Street and investing would be a long time returning. The big players would keep at it, millions would be made, but the crisis’ real solution was a long way off.
More than anything, she hoped Aunt Jeep and Babs could restore three blocks in Reno. It could provide some hope, perhaps not a beacon of hope but even a burning match in darkness is precious light.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jeep and Babs were driving south of Reno while Mags was meeting with Greg. This area of Reno had suffered its share of foreclosures, with much of the loans held by Western United.
The two wanted to personally contact every priest, minister, and rabbi they could to ask for help in the form of food but also assistance in lobbying the utilities, when that time came, which would be soon.
After five hours of face-to-face encounters with the God Squad, as Jeep called them, the two stopped for a quick lunch.
Gulping coffee, having been badly in need of caffeine, Jeep, once enlivened, said, “Babs, are you surprised at the response?”
“Yes. Only one preacher denied us today. I confess, Jeep, I go to church more out of a sense of duty, to see friends. Dogma leaves me cold. Thankfully, there’s not much of it from our pulpit.” Babs attended a Methodist church, with many movers and shakers as members.
“I trot down to Trinity Episcopal more for the organist than anything,” said Jeep. “I’ve never been motivated by religion, although I’ve sure prayed hard when I’ve been in trouble. But I’m changing my mind.” She took another swig.
“How so?”
“Since we’ve been doing this, we have had three preachers turn us away, counting today’s. Every other priest, preacher, and rabbi has offered help. Some worry they can’t do as much as they’d like, but they’ll try. I believe there really are people who do God’s work. It’s done quietly, without attention drawn to one’s self. That pretty much applies to everyone we’ve talked to today. I’m humbled, really.”
Perfectly coiffed as always, Babs smiled slowly. “A first.”
Jeep laughed. “I deserve that, but you don’t get anywhere if you don’t believe in yourself first.”
“I believe in both of us.” Babs’s voice rose slightly. “And I’m truly excited about tomorrow when your appeal ads are aired. Friday was a smart move for the first day.”
“I hope so, honey, I do. I figure the Wentworth campaign will slow down a bit over the weekend so we might catch that crew off guard, plus we’ll give the residents of Reno a chance to think this over when they are with their families. Maybe they’ll realize how lucky they are and be willing to help someone else.”
“You were right not to go into that poor boy’s death.”
“It’s an outrage, but we can’t mix our messages.” Jeep had told Babs what Pete had told both her and Mags concerning Brad Heydt’s background. “It’s funny, Babs, here I am daily singing ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee’ along with Howie as I roar through my eighties but I have more energy than ever and I think more focus. I was focused on the war. Then trying to survive after the war. Then mining. Then building the salvage business. But over the last twenty years I’ve relaxed. Look, it’s been wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but my engines are revved.”
“Mine, too.”
“Oh, honey, you aren’t half old. Your engine doesn’t need an overhaul.”
They laughed as they picked through their large salads.
“I’m no spring chicken.” Babs speared a seared scallop nestled among lettuce, mandarin oranges, almond slices, and other tidbits designed to caress the palate.
“That makes me a winter chicken.” Jeep smiled.
They chatted about people they knew, people they remembered who had gone on, grandchildren, the up-and-coming baseball season (both were Aces fans), all the minutiae that tie people to one another and to a place.
Satisfied that she’d left room for dessert, Jeep ordered crème brûlée, always her test for any restaurant.
“I’ll pass.” Babs handed the dessert menu back to the waitress.
“You haven’t a spare pound on you.”
“That’s why I’ll pass.”
Jeep nodded. “I’ll give you a bite of crème brûlée.”
“I’ve been thinking about our situation here in Reno and Nevada, in general.” Babs folded her hands, leaning forward. “What we do here truly can affect the nation.”
“How so?” Jeep leaned forward herself.
“If we can find solutions for Nevada, they might work elsewhere. Our idea—about restoring value to the foreclosed homes, restoring value to lives and getting people back to work—is small, granted, but it’s a beginning.”
Jeep nodded. “Right now, there’s only one person who’s actively working against us,” she said, thinking of Patrick Wentworth, “but he can inflame others. Fear sells.”
“Does it ever.” Babs took interest as the crème brûlée, with three fresh raspberries and a mint leaf on the top for decoration, was placed in front of Jeep.
“Would you like the first bite?”
; “No, that honor belongs to you, but I’ll take the second.” Babs held up her clean spoon.
After both sampled the crème brûlée their verdict was: delicious.
After the usual fight for who pays the bill, won by Jeep, the two headed back to Reno.
“Do you mind if I take a short detour?”
“Of course not.”
“There’s a development that started in 2006, nice homes, the two hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar range out here. Very well planned.”
They cruised through two curving riverstone abutments, large wrought-iron gates swung wide open.
About one-fourth of the homes had inviting desert landscaping, which conserved water. No lawns here but a good use of local plants and the ever-present rock outcroppings.
However, many of the homes sat empty and an entire section of the development had abandoned houses still in various stages of construction.
A work truck, light yellow with a mountain outline on the side, announced Sanchez Construction. A dark blue BMW 6 series was parked alongside.
Babs slowed down as she approached the parked vehicles. She recognized Michelle Speransky talking to a man dressed in work clothes, both of them looking at blueprints as they stood in front of one unfinished house.
“Come on, let me introduce you to the senior loan portfolio manager at Reno Sagebrush,” said Babs. “She was at our gathering at High Roller but you were surrounded by people. I don’t think you met her. Mags did though.”
As Babs parked, Michelle looked to the car, saw who was in it, and smiled. She said something to the good-looking man, perhaps in his midforties. They both walked over. Introductions were made.
“Where’s your hard hat?” Babs teased Michelle.
“I’m hoping I’ll be needing one in the future. I’m here to walk through the unfinished house and to check the condition of the foreclosed ones with Todd. Truckee made all the loans out here, as you probably know.” She nodded to Babs.
“It’s a lovely development. Close to good schools.”
“I’m proud of it,” Todd replied. “It’s a terrible time for construction. Kind of like being on the death star, you know, but I wanted Michelle to see it. We need an extension of our line of credit. No one’s lending.” Todd Sanchez ran the business started by his father.
Babs looked at Michelle approvingly. “Most officers would just read the numbers on the reports, but you’re here.”
“Numbers can lie, Babs. I want to encourage business, not smother it, and it’s an uphill battle to get money for something like construction, one of the hardest hit industries. These homes have value, as you know. When the market turns, they’ll be worth something again. We’ve got to restore confidence.”
Dry tone to her voice, Jeep said to Michelle, “Your bank and every other has money.”
Michelle responded straightforwardly, “Ms. Reed, we do. We also have the massive liability of Truckee Amalgamated’s robo loans. And their bailout money, which at some point we must pay back, but here’s the real problem: It’s easier to make one loan for five hundred thousand dollars than ten loans for fifty thousand. Less paperwork, fewer personnel. The central problem, as I see it, is getting small business loans to the businesses that need them. Clearly, General Motors did not have this problem.”
Jeep appreciated Michelle’s candor and acumen.
Babs, too, liked Michelle’s coming right out with it. “What are your chances of convincing the top brass? You wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t your intent.”
“I have to step softly. Asa Chartris sees the problem, but he’s one officer among many. Bankers are scared, Babs, and they’re vilified and, hey, people do have egos. I don’t want to make someone feel belittled. Bankers are paralyzed by indecision. And the economy is paralyzed. I hasten to add, bankers aren’t the root cause.”
Jeep listened carefully. “The root cause, Ms. Speransky, is a generation that came to power, oh, say fifteen years ago with no direct experience of the Great Depression and who disregard the checks and balances in place from those who had suffered. Hubris. The gods always punish it.”
“They’ve been spectacularly successful doing just that.” Michelle smiled ruefully.
“Hey, you keep pushing,” Todd Sanchez said. “That’s what Dad says, and he’s right. If one door is closed, knock on another.”
“Todd,” Babs asked, “would you mind showing us one of the unfinished houses?”
“With pleasure.” Mike took Jeep’s elbow, acting as an escort.
As they walked through the building, which had the roof on and siding up but nothing else, he pointed out the sturdiness of the frame, showing off joints and joists, even drawing attention to the type of nails used, screw types, and so forth. His knowledge was detailed and intimate. His pride in what his company produced was refreshing. He wasn’t selling the building, he was boasting, in a nice fashion, of the company’s workmanship.
After the tour, Babs, back at the car, turned to him. “You’ve created good housing at a good price. No shortcuts, unseasoned lumber, second-grade materials. I truly hope things work out for you and the company.”
“Thank you, Ms. Gallagher.”
“I do, too.” Jeep then noted to Michelle, “You’re wise to set aside the paperwork and see for yourself. I hope you can prevail on Reno Sagebrush’s leadership.”
“Thank you.”
Driving back to Wings Ranch, the two talked about what they’d seen. Then Jeep put her forefinger to her lips for a moment.
“That means a pearl of wisdom is about to be tossed.”
“Your eyes are supposed to be on the road.”
“I have good peripheral vision,” Babs shot back.
“I’m trying to understand fully Nevada’s crisis and I had one of those errant thoughts that usually contain a bit of a new idea. We are really a two-industry state: mining and gambling.”
“We are.”
“Here’s what just occurred to me: Those states with a plethora of different industries and with strong agriculture like New York, Illinois, and Georgia even—I know I’m leaving a lot out—they are subject to many different points of economic view by people who have built and run those companies.”
“Ah.” Babs got the point. “We are continually reduced to two streams of thought. They may be good, but they aren’t enough.”
“When you have a lot of different viewpoints from successful people on the table, I think that state has a better chance of finding solutions to their economic crisis than we do.”
“What about California? They have everything.”
“They were so rich for so long that their government over the last thirty years promised everything to everybody. They can’t possibly pay the bill. But California, I believe, is still our most versatile state. Agriculture alone is amazing, three growing seasons! But you can’t promise endless benefits to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. There’s probably more to it than that, but that’s what I see.”
“No one will ever accuse Nevada of being versatile. Seven inches of rain annually defines much of what we can and can’t do.”
“Which is why we’ve been so resourceful in the past,” said Jeep. “Look, Babs, old Nevada folk were tough. Are we still tough?”
“You are.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hey, Mom, turn on Channel Two,” Pete called out as he walked through the door of his parents’ home at 6:15 P.M., Friday.
“You’re late,” Mrs. Meadows called out from the kitchen.
“I know, but I took a shower. Be grateful.”
“That kind of day?”
“Yep. Where’s Dad?”
“Right here.” Whit Meadows said as he emerged from the bedroom. “Had to take a shower, too.”
Father and son possessed the same powerful build and similar baritone voices. Pete took his mother’s coloring—dark hair and eyes—while his two sisters took their father’s sandy coloring along with their mother’s curvaceous physique. Like all families, they w
ere a mix of the genetic jackpot. Both of Pete’s older sisters, well educated, lived on the East Coast. One was in Washington, D.C., and the other in Greenwich, Connecticut. Both girls married well. Despite being far-flung, they stayed emotionally close with Pete, who bore the brunt of his older sisters’ teasing.
“Why Channel Two?” Rebecca walked out of the kitchen, her apron tied on.
“Mags said Jeep’s ad is going to run during the six-thirty news.”
“What ad?” Whit followed his wife into the kitchen.
“Something about the homeless.”
“Is it something to do with that poor starved boy?”
“Yes,” Pete answered his dad. “He was twenty.”
“Starved.” Whit repeated, shaking his head.
Rebecca refrained from comment as she put the finishing touches on her pot roast. Talking about starvation seemed like a jinx.
Pete set the kitchen table. Whit put out the glasses.
“Hon, do you want coffee?” Whit opened the cabinet containing cups and saucers.
“No, sweetie. Too late for me.”
“Pete?”
“No, Dad.”
“Well, I guess I don’t want any, either.”
A familiar voice brought their eyes to the small TV in the kitchen.
“Each year ninety-six billion pounds of food are wasted in America. Each day children and adults go hungry. These are hard, hard times. Don’t be hardened by them. This is Jeep Reed asking you to help me help the hungry. Together we can end hunger in the biggest little city in America. Please visit www.nohunger.com to see how you can help. Thank you.”
“Jesus.” Whit exclaimed because the opening shot was of Jeep standing next to an endless mountain of wasted food.
One pile was actual tossed food from the casinos. Special effects altered it, creating more piles of the same size to represent the pounds ruined.
That image was then followed by shots of clean, but not well-dressed children, bundled up, walking from Spring Street to school with their mothers. That shot was then followed by a long pan of foreclosed homes, which then cut to people standing in line at church soup kitchens. Next were people removing boxes of food from parked vehicles on Spring Street. Many of the vehicles carried church logos, others were private vehicles. A quick shot of a poor child, smiling as she ate a sandwich, preceded the final shot of Jeep.
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