The Concealers

by James J. Kaufman

“I’ve read about the takeover of the Hamptons Bank. I was moved by what it must have been like for you and others, having worked there so long. I know what it’s like to need a job. I hope you were able to find one.”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve certainly tried. It’s a terrible time to be looking for a job. My husband’s an attorney whose firm went bankrupt. He’s been looking for more than a year. We’ve been careful over the years, but it’s not easy. Our savings are just about used up.”

  Katherine could see the tightness in Constance’s shoulders and the worry in her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. I’m interested in the impact a bank failure has on employees caught in a situation like yours—through no fault of their own. I’m assuming you had no idea your bank was failing.”

  “It was a total shock to me. That bank job—apart from my family—was my life. Twenty-seven years. I hope this story helps.”

  “I must tell you, I’m going to write the story, but I don’t know yet whether it will be published. That’s entirely up to my editor. So this could all be for nothing. But I’d like to try.”

  “So would I. Ask away.”

  Katherine questioned Constance, methodically developing her history with Hamptons Bank, her training, the depth of her duties and responsibilities as a teller. Then she delved layer by layer into the reporting structure at the bank, the oversight, evaluations of her job performance, promotions, raises, setbacks. According to Constance it was a steady, incremental history, free of any disciplinary action and a professional match between the bank’s expectation and her performance. Finally, Katherine explored Hamptons’ financial condition, which Constance said she knew nothing about. Katherine continued to probe what Constance did know and when she knew it.

  Just as Katherine was finished, Constance’s husband joined them, introducing himself, and looking exactly as Katherine expected—a pleasant enough man, average height, round in the middle, an earnest but intense face. Another lawyer in trouble.

  It took no prompting for him to reveal his own story with far more detail than Katherine needed—but not more than she wanted. It was a sad story, unfortunately not unique. She silently counted her blessings.

  “Thank you both for talking to me—and for your candor,” said Katherine when she’d concluded the interview. “What you’re going through must be terrible, and I’m sure you’re not alone.”

  “CCB let our whole department go,” explained Constance. “Not at first, but it wasn’t long before they brought in their own people. Not just the tellers, but the janitors, the security guards, everybody.”

  “I’d like to include others in the story,” Katherine said. “Can you give me some names of other tellers who were laid off? Names of some of the security people—the janitors—the others you mentioned.”

  “I can do better than that,” Constance said getting up and going to her desk in the adjoining den. She came back with a book and handed it to Katherine. “This is the personnel directory for our department—names, addresses, everything. They’re all gone.”

  Katherine thanked Constance again and went back to the office. Although it was getting late, she called several people from the directory, and connecting with three, she felt she would have enough material to round out the story. She would begin to write it in earnest the next morning.

  Katherine fell asleep that night thinking about Constance and her husband, and how fortunate she was to finally have a job—and be working at something she had dreamed about doing all her adult life. As she cuddled with Hailey in bed, she counted her blessings, among them a mother who had encouraged her and supported her along the way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Preston’s driver took him to Teterboro Airport, where a Cessna Citation X and its young captain and crew were standing by.

  “Are you ready to leave?” the captain asked, taking Preston’s suitcase and garment bag.

  “Yes, thank you,” Preston said as he boarded the plane.

  During the four-hour trip to Las Vegas, bathing in the luxury of the cabin, Preston wished he were not alone. He scanned the summary of Wilson’s cash position he’d asked Casey to prepare, admiring Casey’s ability to distill the condition of seven stores down to three pages. He felt let down and abandoned by Casey’s threat to quit. At least he hadn’t actually left. They had been together for so long, been through so much, surely Casey wouldn’t leave him now.

  Preston’s concern about Casey’s leaving was bad enough. But Marcia’s misgivings bothered him even more. He remembered her reaction. If he’s worried, I’m worried. Preston hated hearing her raise the question about what happens to Casey’s shares, all the more when she told him to ask his lawyers about that. He’d thought they’d put all the worry behind them, but now he could feel the yarn in the sweater begin to unravel.

  Sitting in the quiet comfort of the private jet, Preston felt as though he were in a finely finished coffin, flying into the skies of despair. He stared out the window, registering nothing, and remained in his state of self-imposed depression until the plane landed smoothly at the North Las Vegas Airport, where he was greeted by a limousine that drove him to the Wynn Hotel.

  Preston checked in, called Austin, and arranged to meet for drinks in the lounge with the Wilson team attending the JD Power conference and NADA meetings. He also called Missy.

  “Hi, Preston. I take it you’ve landed and are settling in. How was your flight?” asked Missy, solicitous as always.

  “Smooth and efficient,” Preston said. “As I mentioned last week, I’m here for the automobile dealers’ meetings, but I’d really like to have dinner with you and Tommy tonight if you’re free. Also, Missy, I would appreciate talking to you privately if we can.”

  “Tommy knows you were scheduled to arrive about now, and he and I were planning to have dinner with you tonight. You’re at the Wynn, right? Would you like to eat there?”

  “That would be great. I’ll make a reservation at Wing Lei. Say for 7:00 p.m. Will that work?”

  “The earlier the better for me. I’ll check with Tommy. I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “When could we talk?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Privately?”

  “Why do you want to talk to me privately, Preston? Marcia problems again?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . well, when we talked before, last year, you—gave me some insights—got me to look at things . . . Marcia, a different way. I could really use some of that right now. To be perfectly honest, Missy, that’s the reason I came out here. I don’t care about the auto meetings. My team can handle that.”

  “Well, we could have breakfast. Do you want to come to our apartment, or would you rather talk in the coffee shop there?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather talk here.”

  “We’ll catch up tonight.”

  Preston came upon Bill, Antonio, Loreen, Sam, and the other members of Wilson’s delegation gathered in the lounge. Bill rearranged the chairs and low tables to accommodate the group, while Sam gave the long-legged waitress their drink orders. They all stood and saluted when Preston arrived and pulled up a chair. Party time.

  “At ease,” Preston said, ordering his own drink. “I hope you guys will spend some time focusing on the courses—what you can learn and bring home to make our operations run better and help us sell more cars.”

  “Austin gave us that speech before we left,” Sam said.

  The group meeting lasted about an hour, attention to the agenda dulled by the drinks and diluted by the rambunctious environment and the shouts from the nearby tables.

  Preston looked at his watch and excused himself, telling his team that he had another appointment. He wished them good luck with the meetings. By the time he’d made his way through the crowds, climbed the stairs to the restaurant, and checked in with the maître d’, it was 7:30 p.m
.

  “Your two guests are seated and waiting for you, Mr. Wilson. Please follow me,” he said.

  Preston shook Tommy’s hand, gave Missy a kiss on the cheek, and took a seat in the booth opposite them. “It’s great to see you guys,” Preston said, once again struck by how Missy’s natural beauty could make the perfect dress look even better.

  “It’s good to see you again, too,” Missy said. “It’s been a while. Actually, I haven’t seen you since the funeral. It’s been a little over a year since Joe . . . I still can’t believe it.”

  “I know. He was quite a man,” Preston said.

  “I always wondered why you didn’t say anything, you know, at the funeral,” Missy said.

  “I know why,” Tommy said. “He’s not an all-in kinda guy.”

  Preston smiled. Tommy didn’t. No one spoke.

  “Let’s celebrate. Time for some champagne,” Preston said, motioning for the sommelier.

  “Hold the booze for us,” Tommy said, “but don’t let us stop ya.”

  Preston ordered a bottle of chardonnay instead. “You sure you don’t want anything?”

  “No, thank you,” Missy said. “Tell us how you’re doing. Tommy tells me you have a son. Congratulations. You must be so proud.”

  The wine steward poured a small portion in Preston’s glass; Preston tasted it and signaled his approval.

  “Thank you. It’s been exciting. A lot of changes.”

  “You named him Preston Joseph, right? After Joe. That’s so nice,” Missy said.

  “Yeah, we call him P.J. He’s . . . a handful. Just starting to walk.”

  “Show me a picture,” Missy said.

  Preston reached for his wallet, pulled out a picture of Marcia holding P.J., and handed it to Missy.

  Missy studied the photograph with obvious delight. “He’s handsome, like his dad,” she said, handing the photograph to Tommy.

  “Better looking,” Tommy said. “Let’s eat.”

  Preston signaled their waiter, who immediately came and took their orders.

  “By the way, congratulations to you, Missy. Tommy told me you were married here in Vegas, and Harry came with his band.”

  Missy’s face lit up like fireworks. She described the wedding in detail, the Viva Las Vegas, what everybody wore, how sweet it was, and the reception. “Harry was wonderful. It was so much fun. I’d never heard music like that. We danced and laughed ourselves silly.”

  Their dinner was served, and they took a break from their discussion only to exclaim about the food. After dinner, Preston ordered a scotch, Tommy a beer, and Missy more hot tea.

  “How’s Marcia handling all of this?” Missy asked. “It’s a lot of work. Is anyone helping her?”

  “Her mother stayed with us for a couple of weeks after the hospital. Marcia said that helped a lot.”

  “Of course it helped. You don’t like your mother-in-law?” Tommy asked.

  Preston felt embarrassed, wishing he had put it differently, reminded once again of how direct Tommy could be. “We have a nanny. That helps.”

  “I don’t know about nannies,” Tommy said. “They ain’t family. I worry the kid could tell. When the time comes, Miss—I don’t want no nannies—if you’re okay with that.”

  “That’s fine, Tommy. I doubt that we could afford a nanny anyway. Besides, my mom and half my relatives would be out here—or actually in Elko.”

  “How’s the project coming?” Preston asked. “Did you get the information Casey sent?”

  “I got it,” Tommy said. “My numbers guys sent him back most of what he asked for. When I didn’t hear further from you, I figured you didn’t like the cash flow situation, and I proceeded in accordance. We’ve arranged some seed money, and we’ve already started on the renovation.”

  Missy chimed in. “We hope to have the camp open on a small basis in ninety days. I’m going to start with basic dance lessons for the girls. I can’t wait.”

  “It’s quite an undertaking. I don’t know how you run a dance studio for girls with special needs,” Preston said.

  “You run it like any other dance studio. We all have special needs, Preston,” Missy said. “It’s just that these girls need a little more help. I thought you might understand that now that you have a young boy who has special needs of his own.”

  Preston suggested they adjourn to the first-floor lounge for cigars.

  “I don’t think a cigar’s a good idea tonight, Preston. Maybe you and I will have one while you are here—shoot a little craps,” Tommy said.

  “What are you talking about? You’re the one that got me hooked on cigars.”

  “I did an introduction to you to cigars. I didn’t do any hooking. Whether or not you smoke ‘em is up to you.”

  “Well, let’s go down to the lounge, and I’ll smoke one,” Preston said.

  “That ain’t gonna happen tonight.”

  “Thanks, Tommy,” Missy said.

  Preston was confused by the conversation, but he didn’t want to upset Missy, so he dropped the subject.

  Tommy and Missy thanked Preston for dinner.

  “Are we still on for breakfast?” Missy asked.

  “Absolutely,” Preston replied. “What time would be convenient for you?”

  “How about 8:00 a.m. at the Frontier Coffee Shop—where we first met.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Preston said and shook Tommy’s hand while putting his arm lightly around Missy’s shoulder.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Preston found Missy in the coffee shop at a table not far from the one where they’d first met, and a waitress came to take their orders.

  “So, Preston, what’s going on?”

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me—”

  “Preston, skip all that. You have a problem with Marcia. Again. Talk to me.”

  “Well, for a while, after Joe turned things around, everything was great. Marcia was pregnant . . . we’d always wanted a child. Marcia seemed happier than I’d seen her in years. She helped me in the business, she was upbeat, and she was . . . I thought she was back in love with me. Then, after the baby was born, everything seemed to fall apart.”

  “What do you mean, fall apart?”

  “She became short with me, more distant. It was like I couldn’t do anything right as far as she was concerned.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “I doubt it. There’s more. Keep talking.”

  “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “I have a couple of girlfriends who are going through this. A baby—especially the first year—is hard, and that’s without P.J.’s hearing problem. Do you think that Marcia feels that you did all you could to help?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s a problem. Do you help with the dishes, empty the garbage, make the beds, fix the formula, whatever?”

  “We have a maid, and we have a nanny. I don’t think Marcia’s got it all that bad.”

  They both obviously welcomed the arrival of their food, and the opportunity to regroup.

  “Okay, forget about the maid and nanny. Marcia has a one-year-old child, and that’s her primary concern, and it should be. I don’t want to pull teeth here, but you’re not helping me help you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The last time we had this kind of discussion, you admitted that you’d been holding back. Now I’m sensing a lot more walls. My guess is Marcia’s tired of climbing those walls. Tell me more about P.J.’s hearing problems.”

  “He was born with a moderate to severe hearing loss. We . . . Marcia consulted her pediatrician, a pediatric audiologist, and a highly regarded hearing and speech school. They subjected P.J. to extensive further testing and assessment, and within weeks recommended that he be fitted wit
h hearing aids for both ears.”

  “That’s great. That means he’ll have help hearing.”

  “But, that’s the thing. He can hear, some. I talked with another pediatrician who advised that we wait a while and see how P.J. develops. Marcia was so upset, you’d think I hit our son over the head. So intense about it—wanted our son to wear hearing aids, a thing in his ears with a tube and the other part hanging behind his ears—in the first six weeks. Imagine a young baby being subjected to that? He’d probably pull them off, chew them, maybe eat them. I thought it was nuts, particularly when it may not be necessary.”

  “That could be a problem. I’m sure Marcia has talked about it with the medical people. Has she said anything about that?”

  “I don’t know whether she talked with them about that specifically. I do know she talked to her friend Ann, who visited her recently. When I came home that night, it was five degrees above zero in our apartment, if you know what I mean.”

  “What happened?”

  “Marcia was in the wine, opened with one of her we-need-to-talk speeches. That’s when she told me she was going to have him fitted. I told her we had honest differences about that.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “She said this was important to her and P.J. That my way could hurt him, having him fitted could only help.”

  “How did you respond?”

  “I told her I thought we were a team on this. She said she was resigning from the team and went to bed. A few days later, after work and stopping at my club, I came home and told her I had a problem with one of our key guys leaving. She brushed that off and told me she’d gone ahead and had P.J. fitted.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Too early to tell. It’s a process, having him adapt to the aids. It’s supposed to be a happy time when you do it.”

  “Are you helping Marcia with that process?”

  “No, she’s better at that. Besides, she knows how I feel. But it gets worse.”

  “I’m sure. Go ahead.”

  “That’s when she tells me that I’m becoming an older man and that she’s feeling farther away from me. She told me if I can’t be an involved husband I should at least want to be an involved father. That really pissed me off. I told her I am an involved father on two fronts.”