The Collectibles

by James J. Kaufman

  “I’ll be fine, Red. I’m okay. Go ahead. Need some time alone. Thanks for being here. As always, you’ve got my back. Got Buck, and he’s better-looking than you anyway.” In reading Red’s face, Joe knew that this was not enough. They had been together too long. “Okay, look, I can’t sleep and when I do for an hour or two, I see her . . . sort of like a dream . . . and I really want to see her. I know I can’t. It sounds crazy. I wake up in a total sweat. Then I take another shower.”

  “You always took too many showers,” Red replied with a smile. “Who is going to give you the save-water speech?”

  “Thanks for your searing insight, Buddy,” Joe said with a forced grin. “It probably all comes down to time. I’ll be fine. I got an idea, Red. Why don’t you get your sorry ass out of here and leave me alone?”

  “Aye aye, Cap. I’m out of here, but keep in touch and tell me how you’re doin’. That’s an order.”

  Joe walked Red to his metallic gray Panamera Turbo. Joe looked the Porsche over and the two men smiled, shook hands and slapped shoulders. Joe spun at the doorstep and returned the salute he knew Red had given so Red would know he was fine.

  But Joe was not fine. For many nights he did not sleep, only briefly dozing off. Believing Buck needed as much consoling as he did and thanking God they at least had each other, he tried to get his dog to jump up and sleep in bed. But Buck remained on the floor, on Ashley’s side.

  Joe constantly thought about his Uncle Howard and Aunt Lettie, the heavy responsibility they must have felt taking the place of his parents, killed in a freak lumber mill accident when he was ten. He loved his uncle and aunt dearly and he knew they had done their best. But he wondered what his mother and father were like, and what it would have been like to be raised by them, to have felt them. Even though he didn’t know them, he’d always missed them. It was through Ashley – her love, her understanding, her acceptance – that he had finally come to peace over the loss of his mom and dad. And now he’d lost the compass that led him out of that place. How was he supposed to go on now? Why should he?

  Joe felt that he was having a conversation outside of himself, but he didn’t know where it was coming from, or where it would lead. He hadn’t been afraid of much in his life because he had faith and always managed to determine where he was going and how he would get there. Now he had no idea where he was going and less of an understanding as to how, or if, he could get there. His training was kicking in on one level – push forward, get it done – and on another level he felt he was in a deep, black hole. He decided for the moment, at least, the best he could do was to keep moving.

  Over the next six months, Joe threw himself into his law practice, finding the huge caseload helpful and the people gracious, save a few well-meaning jerks, who simply could not let the topic of his loss alone. He looked forward to the long hours, avoiding empty nights at home and meals sitting across from an empty chair. He learned he could be utterly alone in a group of three or a crowd of two hundred.

  He thought about seeking the counsel of his minister. He respected Dave, found him easy to talk to and certainly understanding. He knew how valuable a minister could be under these circumstances, having observed how helpful the doctors and clergy were to the men with whom he served in the Navy when they got in trouble or were under unbearable stress. Joe realized the value of all this, not to mention the connection he knew Dave would make to his relationship with the Lord and the comfort and the support that would provide.

  It was essentially the same story that was drilled into his head when his mother and father died, although he was too young to fully understand it. He heard it again when his Uncle Howard passed away, soon to be followed by his Aunt Lettie. But this time it was not enough. This time he and Buck were all alone and no words were going to change that. And there was no reason for it. No logic. Why? Why would a woman like Ashley, in the prime of her life, be killed by the bullet from a gun of a young kid she never knew? How could it happen? The whole thing made no sense and Joe could not, despite day after day of thought, make any sense out of it.

  At first he found himself waking up and reaching out for Ashley or calling for her as if she were there. He found himself talking to her and asking Buck about her. In short, he felt he was losing his mind. Then he went through alternating periods of withdrawal, hostility and anger, listening to himself lash out at clients, friends or others in a way he’d never done before.

  He was aware that he was doing it but what bothered him was that he couldn’t stop doing it. He’d been pissed off before, yet for his whole life he had managed to be in control of his emotions. That was one of his greatest strengths and that’s what everybody talked about who’d worked with him in the Navy and served with him on the Trader. It was one of the components of his leadership, an area for which he was most admired. Where was that quality now? Would it come back? He didn’t know. Worse, he didn’t care.

  Wanting to communicate less and less, he shut down his email and cell phone.

  So he asked himself, was this the time to go see a shrink? While Joe had on occasion dealt with psychiatrists on behalf of clients and friends over the years, he had never consulted one in connection with his own problems. Although increasingly aware of his depression, Joe sure as hell did not want to be medicated. He’d seen enough of that over the years, in and out of the service. He knew time was his only ally. He remembered his feelings of abandonment and despair when his mom and dad were killed, and found solace in having survived that loss. He would survive this one, too.

  Your Aunt Lettie and I love you like our own son . . . I wonder sometimes whether we’ve been good enough for you . . . We prayed many times, asking for help from the Almighty . . . Lettie and I could not be more proud of you if we tried.

  He had learned through Ashley to let go and to love flat out, without reservation or qualification, but now reservation and qualification were back. He drove cars too fast, slammed doors too hard, and apologized too slowly. He resented it when his friends implied – and some expressed directly – that six months was time enough to get on with your life. How the hell did they know? How could they possibly understand the life he and Ash had? How many had ever experienced that? Time might diminish the scar, but no time would ever be enough where Ash was concerned.

  While he wanted to cling to everything to do with Ashley, he also knew he had to do something, make some change. He kept being drawn to the pain he’d felt when Lettie told him that God had taken his mom and dad, and they were in heaven now. Looking back, he knew he would have joined them if not for his aunt and uncle. He remembered Lettie’s last words to him, that she loved him, and “whatever you do, don’t forget Jesus.” What Joe wondered was whether Jesus had forgotten him? Joe had faced danger and risk of death many times. After all, he would die at some point anyway. Why not now?

  When he pushed these away, his thoughts turned to Howard and the mountains. Joe could feel the spray from the waterfall on his face. He could hear the rush of the brook and taste the trout. He could see Howard’s smile, hear his voice, as if he were still alive.

  There’s a certain truth in these mountains . . . They’re beautiful, but they ain’t forgiving. Only the strong survive . . . Treat the mountains with respect . . . you’ll be all right, and never alone . . . If you make a mistake up here, you can die . . . It can be cold and raw and windy and whipped. It can also be calm and clear.

  Uncle Howard was long gone. So was Aunt Lettie. So were Joe’s mom and dad. And now Ashley. They were all gone. All except the mountains. They were still there. It was time to go home.

  Chapter 5

  The limo driver dropped Preston Wilson and Casey Fitzgerald, his chief financial officer, on the south side of 1575 Broadway. They passed by the green marble walls and floor into the spacious elevator and up to the thirty-eighth floor. The elevator door opened directly into the venerable law firm of Whitcock, Stevenson, Brookfield, Berry an
d Brown.

  Preston stormed into the reception area, General Patton in a pin-striped suit. Casey waddled behind. The receptionist, apparently used to clients under stress, quietly called Andrew Brookfield, a senior partner heading the firm’s fixed assets commercial group. At the same time she directed Preston and Casey to the waiting area: an antique sofa accented by a table with an assortment of neatly stacked financial magazines, softly lighted by brass and leather lamps. As he waited on the sofa, Preston bobbed his knees up and down while he noisily flipped through the pages of Fortune 500. Casey studied two bound financial reports.

  Brookfield was the attorney supervising Wilson Holdings, Inc., the parent company of Preston’s vast new and used car network. Under various names and in various locations, including Atlanta Motors, San Francisco Autoplaza, East Bay Porsche & Audi, Manhattan Mercedes, Charlottetown Motors, and Houston Automax, Wilson Holdings was one of the largest multi-state mega-dealers in the country.

  Preston threw the magazine back on the table and thought about making calls on his cell phone, but the hushed atmosphere discouraged him. The only reason Preston was sitting here was the urgency of Mr. Brookfield’s tone in calling the meeting.

  Preston hated the way Casey looked, but there was no man he trusted more with his money. Casey’s horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses fell down his reddish, bulbous nose. Thin blond hair stuck out from underneath his khaki hat. He wore a rumpled, gray three-buttoned suit. The buttons on the vest struggled to contain his shirt, red-and-blue striped tie, and massive belly. Over his suit he wore a khaki raincoat, even though the skies were clear that morning.

  It was Casey’s sharp eye that had picked up the too-good-to-be-true numbers on the operating statements of San Francisco Autoplaza; his shrewd questioning and persistence that uncovered the general manager’s attempt to hide the capital losses.

  The silence was interrupted by an older woman who asked them to follow her to Mr. Brookfield’s corner office.

  “Good morning, Preston, Casey. Glad you could make it. Would you like coffee, tea?” He came around his large cherry desk and offered his hand. Andrew Brookfield was six feet, one inch tall, on the slight side, and wore thin, gold-framed glasses in front of intelligent if darting blue eyes. Except for his thin, gray hair he carried his sixty-four years well, leaving one with the impression that his experiences at Harvard and later with the United States Commerce Department, followed by the Securities and Exchange Commission, were all taken in stride.

  “No, thank you, Andrew,” Preston said. “Can we sit at your table in the corner?”

  “Of course, please,” Andrew said as he gestured, picked up a yellow pad, carefully selected one of his three fountain pens from the inside of his suit jacket pocket, and strolled to the corner where they sat on comfortable straight chairs with high backs, gathered around a small, round marble table. Casey took a yellow pad from his briefcase and prepared to record every word that Andrew said at his billable rate of $680 per hour. “Well, Andrew, have you taken Wilson’s temperature?” Preston asked.

  “Yes, several times,” Andrew replied.

  “Let’s have it,” Preston said, looking at Casey, who was studying the parquet wood that surrounded the border on top of the table. Casey, of course, had informed Preston of San Francisco’s cooking of the books and said he regarded the situation as serious, a word Casey did not overuse.

  “As you know, Wilson Holdings has guaranteed the debt of its six subsidiaries, and each has guaranteed the debt of the others. Accordingly, they are all cross-collateralized . . . ”

  “Except for East Bay Porsche Audi,” Casey interrupted.

  “Well, East Bay is the only store standing alone and in the black at the moment,” Andrew acknowledged. “As you know,” he continued, “the only franchises East Bay has are Porsche, Audi, and Range Rover. While these franchises are not down as much as Ford and certainly not demonstrating the huge losses being generally realized in Chrysler or GM stores, their volume is only average, and insufficient to carry any of your other stores, let alone all of them.”

  Andrew rose from the table and poured himself a glass of water from the Waterford cut glass pitcher. Turning to Preston and Casey, he continued the lecture.

  “You have $16.4 million past due in cap loans in three of your stores, some going back six months. The banks are pressing . . . hard. In an off-the-record statement, the bank’s counsel in San Francisco told me she thinks your operating statements are bogus and your dealership’s are SOT. She is threatening to go to the manufacturers on the statements, and we can expect her to seek a Temporary Restraining Order to protect the bank. In other situations, some suits have already been commenced and it’s foreseeable that more will follow.”

  “What’s the good news?” Preston asked with a tight smile that never reached his eyes.

  “We have had the privilege of serving you for many years. You like your coffee strong and the talk served straight.” Andrew pulled his vest down as he made this remark. Casey looked over at Preston and rolled his eyes which, if Andrew saw, he ignored.

  “This is a serious matter. What I have not covered yet are the audits. Each demonstrates non-payment under the terms of the floor plan. Our auditors are still trying to determine how much.”

  Andrew returned to the table, set down his glass, perused his briefcase, and pulled out a particular file. He then locked eyes with Preston, and said, “I want to review with you the condition of being Sold Out of Trust . . . ”

  “We know what it means when we haven’t paid the bank what we owe on the vehicles, Andrew,” Casey interrupted.

  “I’m sure you do, Casey, but our litigation department received a memo from our malpractice insurance underwriter directing that we must inform you as to the meaning and implications of SOT. Please bear with me.” Andrew looked first at Casey and then at Preston. Preston nodded and Casey stared blankly at Andrew.

  “I know you don’t want to go through this and I’ll make it as brief as I can,” Andrew said. He then proceeded to explain to Preston and Casey, in mind-numbing detail, the nature and character of SOT, legally and practically, with all of its implications, including potential criminal exposure.

  “Again, Andrew, we know what SOT is. The real problem is what can we do about it? Aside from all the technicalities, when do we get to the real world?” Casey asked. “Given the 2008 crash, the aftermath and all the other problems in our business, how many dealers do you think can really keep up with timely payments to the bank? That money is needed for operating expenses and cash flow. Our dealers are getting killed, sales are way down and the customers are hurting and upset. What are we supposed to do?”

  Preston shifted in his chair, obviously uncomfortable, as Casey, seeing that Andrew was not offering anything, continued.

  “Hell, everyone’s scared. Never been this bad. If the dealer needs cash, he’ll keep all the money from the sale – and use it in the business or whatever – figuring he’ll pay the bank off later.”

  “I know you’re upset, Casey,” Andrew replied. “I’ve already told you I had no choice but to be able to say that I explained all this to you. We think that the amount could be in excess of eight million. The inventory has relatively small value when compared to the debt from the cap loans and the floor plans, and the value is dropping further because of the deteriorating market conditions. Plus the manufacturers want to get rid of many of their non-performing dealers. The wheels are off the car business and we see no light at the end of the tunnel. I’m sorry.”

  Feeling the sweat running down his sides and the middle of his back, Preston jumped up, hurried to the credenza, and poured a large glass of ice water. “We can always sell one or more of the stores, can’t we?” Preston asked. “Ford, at least, is still buying stores back.”

  “Ford’s not easy. No blue sky. Valuation in the basement. As far as selling to dealers, the timing’s bad. The
buyers will work you over, discount the assets, and work with the franchisor on permission for the transfers – and that’s if they don’t cancel the franchises, like Chrysler and GM are doing now. When they finally conclude their due diligence, you’ll be six to twelve months out.

  “I’ve already mentioned the expected Temporary Restraining Order in California. They’ll seek an order compelling all of the proceeds be directed to the bank. We’ll try to prevent the TRO, or at least have it modified so that ordinary business expenses would be first taken out by the dealership before money goes to the bank. Loans to officers, however, would likely not be permitted, nor would drawing out funds to help any of the other stores. There would be no profit generation.”

  At this point, Preston was pacing the room. “What about the value of the underlying real estate in those stores?” he demanded, throwing his pen on the table.

  “I know you’re aware that real estate’s down across the board, some places worse than others. And I’m sure you know what’s going on with the banks. The jury’s not in on whether the bailouts will help or not. We argue about that every day around here. The only two stores where you own the real estate are East Bay in Chicago and Charlottetown. The North Carolina real estate is already encumbered by first and second mortgages, not to mention the Uniform Commercial Code’s securing the collateral. There is very little, if any, equity remaining, particularly since the refinancing we completed last November for East Bay. The rest of the stores are leases, and the franchisors have been pressing your stores with such a demand for site improvements, I doubt that you have any real equity in the leases.”

  Preston rose from the table and strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the west side of Manhattan. He stared out, his nose close to the windows. He could see his breath on the glass. He watched the cars running like ants up and down the West Side Highway and the boats on the Hudson River. The sky was filled with planes servicing Newark, Tetterboro, and other airports. He looked over at Casey, who still had his hat on. Casey returned Preston’s look, shaking his head. Preston could see moisture behind Casey’s thick lenses.