by James Ross
“The only reason I offered was because it didn’t look like they’d want one.”
“I guess they called your bluff,” Julie replied.
“It’s hot out. Give me a Bud Select,” Scottie P ordered. He smiled and made a cordial, obligatory wave to Captain Jer. He then offered his outgoing personality to the retired pilot by going over to shake his hand.
“Give me Tanqueray on the rocks. Three olives,” Harold said to Julie as he stood in front of the counter in a wrinkled golf shirt, plaid shorts, and dark socks that stopped just below his knee.
“Make mine a double Johnny Walker Red with a splash,” the monsignor blurted as he took a cue from the banker.
“I’ll take a shot of Jack . . . two cubes only . . . with a water chaser,” Mayor Leavitt added. His dreary eyes were an indicator that he had had a few battles with the bottle in his younger days.
J Dub and Julie giggled quietly to themselves as they prepared the drinks for the foursome. “That’ll be twenty-seven fifty, Jer,” Julie shouted out. “Want me to add it to your tab?”
“Jeeeeesus Christ!” Captain Jer yelled out. He had risen to find his hand engulfed in Scottie P’s firm grip.
“Yes, He has been a very nice provider,” the monsignor agreed as he returned the banter. He raised his double scotch on the rocks into the air and took a healthy sip.
“Who are these guys, J Dub?” Captain Jer yelled across the clubhouse. “I didn’t know that they would be this thirsty.”
“You’re shaking hands with Scottie P,” J Dub started. The pro seemed to know everyone in the area and a little about a lot of them. “He’s a very talented low handicapper in the amateur circles around town.”
Captain Jer’s blue eyes, magnified by his considerable tan, went back to Scottie P’s. The former car dealer had not yet released the handshake and had a firm grip on the retired pilot’s paw. For an instant their eyes locked and were frozen together. To break the deadlock Scottie P flashed a broad smile at his new acquaintance. “Thanks for the drink.” He glanced down at the table and saw that the beverage of choice for Captain Jer was also beer. “I’ll buy the next one.” He gave him a quick wink.
For an awkward second as their eyes met Captain Jer thought that Scottie P, who towered above him, was hitting on him. As quickly as the feeling struck him he returned to his mini-stupor. “And who are the others?”
J Dub looked toward the large figure. “That is Monsignor Blair from Hands of Faith Catholic Church.” Alpha Bear waved in the direction of the back booth. “And,” he said as he turned to face the other two, “This is Mr. Syms from the bank and Mayor Leavitt.”
“Thanks for the drink,” the mayor said as held his drink in the air. He belted down the Jack Daniels and quickly took a sip of water.
“Yeah,” Harold agreed with a wave of the hand. He turned to Julie and stayed true to form by peeling off a ten. Then he whispered, “Get him a couple after we leave. The rest is yours.”
“I chose the wrong career path,” Julie conceded. “Let me know when you need an assistant.” She gave a glancing smile to the banker.
Paul the retired ex-Army recruitment officer had been sitting at the table with Captain Jer. For years the silver fox had been the elder spokesman for the group. Once he heard that Scottie P was a talented player he interjected an invite. “Feel free to join whenever you’d like. We’ve always got a good game going over here.”
“I’ll play in a game but I don’t give shots,” Scottie P deadpanned.
“Then you’ll fit right in.” Paul assured him.
Captain Jer had returned to his seat. “Yeah, if you need shots around here, then you have to go to the doctor.” The guys at the back booth chuckled.
“I’ll play with anybody even,” Scottie P confessed as he shook Paul’s hand. He turned and winked again at Captain Jer.
“Who’s the guy in the corner?’ Monsignor Blair asked J Dub.
BowTye had silently gone about his business and was pre-occupied with a pair of shoes. He had a wire brush and was cleaning some dirt and grass out of the spikes. “He’s our jack-of-all-trades around here,” J Dub explained, “That’s BowTye but he’s not in a very good mood today.”
“Why not?” Alpha Bear wondered out loud.
“His church burned down the other night,” J Dub replied.
“I heard about that,” the catholic clergy acknowledged. He moved his large frame to the opposite corner and towered above the tiny man. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” the monsignor said compassionately. “J Dub just told me that you lost your church.”
“Yeah,” BowTye conceded in a deep, rich voice. “Now we don’t have anywhere to go.”
Alpha Bear could see the disappointment etched into the face of the smaller figure. He extended his hand. “I’m Monsignor Blair . . . from Hands of Faith parish.”
The black man scrambled to his feet and grabbed the hand of the catholic priest. His eyes were barely at shoulder level to the larger figure. “I’m Tyrone Munroe. But they call me BowTye around here.”
“With an accent like that, you can’t be from around here.”
“I’m from New Orleans, Louisiana originally. Hurricane Katrina wiped me out. J Dub and his brother, Curt, are helpin’ me out.”
“The Lord delivers his message in strange ways,” Monsignor Blair divulged. “Hang in there.” Conspicuous in its absence, an invite to attend Hands of Faith was not extended. “Keep the faith and things will work out.”
“We’re up!” Harold announced. The foursome quickly bid adieu and headed for the door. “Let’s go.”
“Was he flirting with you?” Elia asked Captain Jer in his deep Middle Eastern accent as the group exited the room.
“Did you notice?” Captain Jer asked. “It made me feel uncomfortable for a second.”
“Yeah, until the alcohol kicked in,” Paco said with a laugh. “You were letting him come on to you.”
As if he was second-guessing his own actions Captain Jer pried, “Was I really?”
“Yeah, the booze must have removed your inhibitions,” Elia teased the retired pilot.
Captain Jer’s paranoia was getting the best of him. “Was it that obvious?” Paco, Elia, and Paul laughed at their golfing buddy. “Don’t let my wife know.” He reflected for a moment at his own words. As if to blow the notion away he subtly added, “She knows I’m not gay.”
The boys yucked it up some more. Paco blurted facetiously, “Yeah, right . . . . the pilot said as he gazed into his eyes.”
Captain Jer shook the cobwebs out of his head and fired down a healthy swig of beer. The alcohol had a way of deflecting guilt. “Well, laugh all you want. At least I know where my sexual preference lies.” He finished the can of Bud Light. “Hey, Jules! Shoot me another!” He turned to look at Paul. “I mean, I wasn’t the one that asked him to join us for a round of golf.” The guys chuckled out loud at Captain Jer’s expense. For J Dub and Julie it was fun to watch the levity in the clubhouse.
Meanwhile out on the course . . .
“Hey, Scottie, how are you supposed to hit this thing?” Harold asked as he stood behind a tree. It was obvious that he had no swing.
“Just kick it out here so you can hit it. We’re not playing for money.”
It hadn’t taken Scottie P too long to figure out that if he didn’t give the other three guys in the foursome a break on the strokes that they might not get off of the course until after the sun went down. It was evident that Harold had the swing of a guy that played a couple of scrambles a year. At five foot four he had probably picked the sport that would give him the best chance to succeed, but it was far more likely that he would succeed in banking rather than at golf.
Alpha Bear had the size to hit the ball a long way; however the demands on his time didn’t allow for him to develop the skills necessary to take the game seriously. Mayor Leavitt was merely along for the ride. He understood his role. The other guys wanted something. It didn’t take too long for the subj
ect to be broached.
As they stood on the third tee Harold pointed in the distance and said, “Look at all of that ground over there.” He nodded to Neal Brownfield’s farm. “That’s all of the ground that we’re planning to put the subdivision on.”
“And the city can’t wait for an expansion project like that,” the mayor admitted. “Don’t worry about getting it through the planning and zoning department.”
“We know that’s going to pass with flying colors,” Harold agreed. “But Neal and I have been racking our brains trying to figure out what to do with some of his ground that we didn’t have earmarked for homes.”
“What do you think will work?” Mayor Leavitt asked. He bent over and placed a tee in the ground.
“What we’d like to do, and that is why I wanted to bring Monsignor Blair over here, is to see if we can get the diocese interested in a private Catholic high school. We figure that with twenty acres we could get plenty of athletic fields, a gymnasium, and parking as well as the academic buildings,” Harold proposed. The mayor took a swing and promptly sliced the ball far to the right. “If we needed to, we could probably have enough land available for dorms.”
Monsignor Blair was the Executive Director of Finance for the local diocese. “Did you want to donate the property?” He gave a jovial grin to the banker.
“I don’t think that we’re prepared to do that, but that can be a different discussion on a different day,” Harold said as he deflected the issue of price. “What I’m more interested in doing today is conceptual.”
The clergyman placed his tee in the ground, assumed his stance, and hit the ball about as well as his athletic skill would allow. With a left to right action the ball ran off the right side of the fairway and settled in the first cut of rough. “I don’t know. We’re not prepared for a project like that.” He bent over to pick up his tee and continued, “And you want to know if I think that the idea would work.”
“Sure!” Harold exalted his own idea. “Neal and I thought that it was a heckuva good thought!” He proceeded to top his drive and watched as it rolled off the front of the tee. “Dang it! This game frustrates the heck out of me!”
Scottie P laughed at the overmatched banker. He teed the ball up and sent it into orbit . . . far outdistancing the others. He was a natural at the game of golf. “There’s nothing to it,” he beamed.
“Look at that,” Harold said as he admired the flight of the ball. “That’s the kind of stuff that ticks me off. How do you do that?”
“With a little bit of talent and a lot of practice,” Scottie P said. “A little time on the driving range can go a long way.”
“Who’s got time for that?” Harold asked. “It’s too tough to feed my family.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We all make choices,” Scottie P countered. “Yours just don’t include the driving range and getting better at golf.” The players located their balls, resumed the pace of play, and continued to the putting surface.
After holing out the putts, the conversation about the new high school continued while the foursome walked off of the green. “You’ve got the money,” Harold teased the monsignor. “I know somewhere you can go to get a good loan.” He sniggered at his own humor, then quickly turned to the mayor and changed the subject. “The city would embrace something like that, wouldn’t they?”
Mayor Leavitt had been salivating. “Are you kidding? That’s a no-brainer. With all the families that will be moving to town we’ll need another place for them to go to school.”
Harold was trying to cover all of his bases. He needed to make a quick score to replace the money that he had dropped in the Japanese stock market. The earnest money alone could be redirected to go into the account of Mrs. Harris. He came at Alpha Bear one more time. “Why don’t you give it some thought and stop in to see me later this week?” Monsignor Blair turned and acknowledged what the banker had proposed. “We don’t need to beat a dead horse out here on the course.”
“You might not have a dead idea. We have a couple of items that we can talk about. I need a few days to go over some things.” The priest placed his putter in his golf bag. “And the earliest I could see you would be the week after next.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
As a successful businessman and deacon of Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen, D. Wayne Smith volunteered to assist Reverend Puld in getting the church back up and on its feet. After the shock of the fire wore off the men needed to regroup. Law enforcement had an arson team working the scene. The insurance agency was contacted so they could start their own investigation. It was decided that D. Wayne would help out in finding temporary space for the church to rent so church services could continue to be held. It was also decided that he would meet with bankers to see what kind of financing would be available for the church to rebuild.
D. Wayne was a natural for the role. Suds, Slugs, & Sinkers had been a very successful business in Wiebbey bottom. D. Wayne’s reputation and business acumen were largely responsible for that success. He wasted no time going to the banker that had given him his original loan.
It was early September in the St. Louis Metro area. That could very well be the prettiest time of the year in the Midwest. The temperature hovered in the mid-eighties. The summertime humidity had been knocked out of the air. Only a slight wind was noticeable. Leaves on the trees were merely awaiting a few cool nights to start changing their colors. College football games had just begun. D. Wayne picked a gorgeous day to walk into the lobby of First Cornstalk Bank.
Dressed in a nice pair of fashionable black dress slacks and a stylish patterned golf shirt, D. Wayne felt confident and optimistic as he approached the desk of Ricki Sandstoner. A gold necklace was visible at the opening of his shirt. His right wrist was the parking spot for a matching gold bracelet. His left wrist was wrapped in an expensive Rolex watch. Ricki was dressed in a trendy business suit and most assuredly understood her role as Harold Syms’ trusting anchor. With an engaging smile and warm reception she did everything in her power to make D. Wayne feel as comfortable as she could. In a humorous way she had perfected an accent and street talk. She knew that she could kid around with the successful businessman that had been a customer for quite a while. “Hi D. Wayne.” She stopped and gave him a once over. “Well, my, my, my, don’t you look . . . how do they say it in the hood? Fitted?”
She reeked with class and D. Wayne recognized it. He chuckled at her imitation slang. With a pirouette he said, “You think?” He wiggled his bottom to show off his physically fit derriere. The years in the gym had kept his abdomen flat and the weight lifting had toned his arms and shoulders.
She watched him as he strutted in front of her desk and continued, “Mmmmm. Mmmmmm. Mmmmmm. You’re in there like swimwear.” Ricki laughed at her own version of the vernacular of the streets.
D. Wayne quickly pinched the tips of his collar. The expression was obvious. He was looking as cool, confident, and good as he possibly could. “I gotta dress the part for the hot shot banker.”
She shifted her eyes to his jewelry. “That’s some mighty fine bling-bling, D. Wayne,” Ricki said as she revisited her dialogue. “How do they say it?”
D. Wayne played the part. “I be burbulating.”
Ricki laughed at his choice of words. “I sho’ don’t know what dat means, but I knows one thing. You sho’ is all bezzeled out.” They both laughed out loud. “Let me tell him that you’re here.” She buzzed Harold’s extension.
Within seconds Harold greeted D. Wayne and invited him into his private office. D. Wayne took a seat opposite Harold’s desk and watched as the small man pulled up his seat. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself as he noticed the seat cushion that Harold sat on. For a little guy he was as cocky as a fox that nabbed a hen. D. Wayne studied the banker. Heck, he even looks like a fox.
“So, Duane what can I do for you?” Harold started as he glanced at his monitor leaving D. Wayne with the impression that the stock market was more important than a black c
ustomer.
The corrected version came forth. “It’s D. Wayne.”
“That’s what I said.” He paused. “Duane.”
“No, it’s not Duane. It’s D. Wayne. You know that. Why do we have to go through this every time I come in here?”
“What difference does it make?” Harold was getting indignant. “You say it one way and I say it another.”
“You’re pronouncing it Duane. My name is D. Wayne.”
Harold was short with his statement when he conceded. “Okay. D. Wayne it is. That sounds like some hick from the mountains. Does that make you feel better?”
“I’m just a guy that wants his name pronounced correctly. I’m sure that you want some people to call you Mr. Syms.”
“Most people do. A person of my stature should be addressed with respect.”
Oh my. Is this guy full of himself or what? D. Wayne paused for a second to think about his next statement. It’s better to play his game. I need some money. “Mr. Syms the reason that I came in today was to see if your institution would be interested in helping out our church which recently burned down.”
For a black guy he makes a nice impression, Harold thought. “I saw something about that on the news,” he feigned.
“We’d like to rebuild.”
“You know . . . D. Wayne . . . you’ve been a good customer of the bank over the years. What sort of funds does the church have? Was the structure insured?” He wasn’t ready to reveal his true intent.
“Not as much as what we would have liked. We’re working on the money.” Even though the adjustor was working on the case the truth of the matter was that the church had very little coverage.
“That’s what it’s going to take if you want me to help you.” Harold put his banker’s face forward for the businessman to notice. “Money. Down payment.”
“It might take us some time to gather that from the congregation.”
“A church is a church,” Harold said as he took the high road. “They’re tough to finance. All the income comes from handouts.”