H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy

by H. J. Gaudreau

  As a young man Cole had decided he would someday own one and it would be perfect. As Cole’s fortunes had improved he’d never forgotten that dream. He had often taken the Standard to owner’s conventions and shows around the country. Cole even had an enclosed trailer specially made to transport the boat from his home to boat shows across the country. Should someone question a part, finish or color on the Standard, Cole immediately accessed his large library of original drawings, parts lists, brochures and manuals. Cole’s boat was perfect and he made certain that everyone knew it.

  Chapter 20

  Cole had certainly found the proverbial nut. Unfortunately, he had never heard of another proverb which held that “pride goes before a fall.” The Horton Bay Boat Company was a small, family owned firm located on the opposite side of the lake. The Schultz family began building wooden canoes during the post war boom years of the 1950’s. The company was perfectly positioned as the auto industry created a huge middle class anxious to play on the hundreds of lakes scattered across the state. Soon easily operated, family friendly ski boats from the Schultz factory could be found on every lake in the State.

  Otto Schultz had run the company since his father died in 1977. Otto had two children, both boys. Sadly, the oldest was one of the few Americans killed during the first Gulf war. Otto’s younger son eventually married and had two children of his own. A plane crash took the family several years ago. Now, Otto and his wife planned to move to the Florida Keys and never shovel snow again.

  In time he approached Cole about purchasing the business. The price was steep, but the business was sound and the idea of building boats began to consume Cole. Unfortunately, Cole was already saddled with a large debt from the construction of his home and boathouse. He had mortgaged his business and carried a heavy debt on the property. It all added up to a bad risk. Cole was turned down by several banks; he could not swing the deal.

  There are no secrets. It’s a law of nature. People who truly knew Cole for what he was knew the state of Cole’s finances. But bankers are as greedy as any scavenger and Cole soon found the perfect partner.

  Alan Wisecup’s career had stalled. He had begun working for the bank as a teller while he completed a two-year degree in accounting at the local community college. Upon graduation he had been promoted, the first of several. But now Alan had reached the top of the ladder, the top for a community college graduate in any case. As deputy chief loan officer of the Traverse Savings and Investment Bank Alan’s only hope of moving up was to earn tremendous returns on his portfolio…or for the old bastard he worked for to drop over dead. Alan was a lot of things but he wasn’t a killer. The boat building business was the perfect deal. The company looked sound and Cole Precott seemed to know his stuff. Returns from this deal were a sure thing.

  Alan began making ‘adjustments’ to the Horton Bay Boat Company books. The debt load wasn’t so much, the property suddenly became ‘prime waterfront’ and the tooling was new and could be depreciated…again. The asking price was a steal.

  Cole’s assets also underwent a transformation. Miraculously his debt load was gone and stores were expected to continue growing at a double digit rate. Cole’s house doubled in value and his boathouse became a company asset. Only a fool would turn down this loan.

  Cole sold his boat rental business, bought the Horton Bay Boat Company and began building boats. Cole’s luck held. While he carried an unusually large interest rate on his loan and his payments were extraordinary, his boat sales were able to generate the income to service the debt and keep Cole and Elaine living the lifestyle they had only dreamed of. Cole’s mistresses were happy, Cole was happy and his wife, he thought, was kept out of the loop.

  For the next three years the business thrived. The day to day operations and main source of income for the company was a line of sport fishing and ski boats sold to auto workers and lower level executives from the southern part of the state, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois. The fishing boats were strong, powerful affairs intended for lake trout miles off shore in the Big Lakes. Sales were steady and profits good. The occasional luxury yacht order spiced things up a bit and the boat yard and repairs filled any gap in orders for boats. It was a good business.

  Best of all Cole was able to dabble in Chris-Craft restorations. The work was slow, tedious and didn’t make the company a lot of money, but Cole loved it. His restorations were gaining a national reputation as being as close to perfect as could be achieved.

  Unfortunately, when a group of junior geniuses at the world’s largest banks decided to sell each other bundles of worthless mortgages, the global economy shuttered and nearly collapsed. Michigan’s auto industry did collapse, taking with it hundreds of small business owners and executives from the Big Three. Brokerage firms issued margin calls in numbers not seen since 1929. Millionaires across the country found they weren’t millionaires anymore.

  The first thing to go were the orders for sport fishing and ski boats as the middle class saw their homes collapse in value and their jobs disappear. The highly paid skilled tradesmen of the auto industry were laid off. Tool and die makers, electricians, machine operators of all types lost their middle class life style in a matter of weeks. Not far behind were the once powerful executives. The yacht construction and Chris-Craft restoration business collapsed.

  The boat repair and storage business disappeared as people abandoned the boats and invited banks to foreclose on the loans. Within six months Cole’s business was on the ropes.

  He was forced to lay off nearly all of his employees, except of course his secretary. She of the 36C cups, meager ability to use a word processor and skills in the bedroom that were truly amazing. Soon Cole found himself with no staff, nothing to sell and debt threatening to swamp his otherwise perfect life.

  He considered selling several of his prize boats. Then realized the money received from the boats would not approach their worth. Besides, if he could sell those boats he should be able to sell new boats. He couldn’t; so that was that. The cabin and boathouse approached his debt, but he loathed the idea of losing his most prized possessions. And, with the economy as it was, there was little hope of getting full value from the property anyway.

  Cole David Prestcott was, in his own words, screwed.

  Chapter 21

  Gerry had already lowered Sherrie and Eve to the ground and the three now stood at the garage doors. Sherrie and Eve quickly blocked the doors open using two large fieldstones and the four began their exploration of the building.

  The boat appeared to be over thirty feet long. It was sitting on a wooden cradle with its bow toward the large double doors. To the right, between the boat and the wall stood a small stack of crates. To the left of the boat was a bit more space; against the exterior wall and running the length of the building was a wooden workbench. Tools, cans of nuts and bolts and assorted implements lay scattered on the bench. Three stools were positioned at random along the bench front.

  Jim climbed the ladder, untied the rope and then moved the awkward beast to the side of the boat. Soon the four had scrambled up the side and were standing in the command console area of the boat. Dark green cushioned benches lined the exterior walls and a galley way door hid in the center under the mahogany framed windows. The cushions were clearly the home of numerous mice.

  “This is nice, well…it was nice!” Sherrie gasped.

  “We could have a heck of a party on this couldn’t we?” Gerry said as he examined the settee.

  Jim ran his hands along the smooth mahogany wood, admiring the workmanship then moved to the bridge deck. Eve quickly followed and spotted the ship’s wheel.

  “Check this out! Look how this thing is flat,” she said to Jim. The ships wheel was mounted parallel with the floor on a chrome column extending to waist level. A matching chrome drum stood on the console in front of and to one side of the wheel. It held the throttle mechanism. Jim tried to move the wheel, it barely budged. “It’s stuck,” he said to the group.

 
“Might be how this thing ended up with a hole in the front,” observed Sherrie.

  Eve then opened the door to the interior cabin. Dark green cushions, again the home of mice and what appeared to be sleeping berths.

  “Nice boat once, what a waste it’s just sitting here,” Jim sighed.

  “I wonder how it got here? I don’t ever recall any mention of this thing when we were kids,” Sherrie looked at Jim.

  “I don’t either. But, come to think about it, I really didn’t know anything about this place. Dad just didn’t want us crossing the fence and for some reason that was one of his rules that I never broke. This place always had bad karma, ya know what I mean?” Jim explained.

  “I DO! I always felt the same way. Denise and I used to pick blackberries all up and down that fence, but I never would go on the other side.”

  No one could come up with an adequate explanation of how this boat ended up ten miles from Lake Michigan and soon they resumed their exploration. It was a cabin cruiser, obviously a high-end antique boat. Except for the damaged bow section, years of dirt, lots of mice and what appeared to be a mummified raccoon it appeared to be in remarkably good shape.

  “This thing has to be worth a lot of money,” Jim remarked.

  “I’ll bet you’re right,” Gerry said. “We’ll have to get it appraised.

  Jim and Gerry climbed down the ladder and inspected the damaged left front of the cruiser. Gerry ran his hand along the gash, examining the damage in detail. “Jim, this looks like someone ran the boat onto the rocks. Look, the front part of this impact point splintered the wood, caved in several boards and then dragged back along the bottom of the hull.”

  Jim studied the marks where Gerry pointed. “I think you’re right. And look here, this board is pulled the opposite direction. This boat was pulled off the rocks.”

  “Wonder why it didn’t sink?” Gerry mused.

  Jim grabbed a stool from in front of the workbench and sat looking at the damaged bow. Finally, he said, “Maybe it was being supported or floated somehow. I’ve heard of sailors wrapping a sail over a hole as a plug. But, to be honest, I have no idea.”

  “Well, somehow somebody did it,” Gerry murmured as he tried without success to reach inside the damaged bow. “I’m wondering if we can fix this.”

  “If the keel is sound…if it’s just this hole and refinishing the old wood, maybe some motor work, yeah, we could do it. Shouldn’t be too hard.” Jim said with an ironic grin. “Going to be expensive; that’s mahogany. And “it ain’t cheap” as they say.”

  They finished exploring the boat then climbed down to the barn floor. Jim edged over to the tool bench and began exploring the antique tools and other objects.

  Sherrie and Eve found a broom and began clearing dirt from the boat. Gerry began surveying the building. Eve appeared at the toolbox, removed a claw hammer and disappeared again. A few moments later a sad moan came from behind the boat. “Awwww…Darn, I thought we had something!”

  Walking around the boat Jim and Gerry found the women sitting on two crates, another two crates were open and they were attempting to open a third.

  “These are all Canadian Whiskey crates, but they’re all empty!” Sherrie explained.

  “You were looking for cheap booze weren’t you!” Gerry pointed an accusatory finger at his wife and laughed.

  The group examined the whiskey crates. “Lots of empty booze boxes,” Gerry said. “I kind of like the old wooden crates, they’re sort of interesting. Think we could use some around the house as decorations?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll bet we can get rid of these in a garage sale in about a minute,” Sherrie observed.

  Jim had become fixated on repairing the boat. “I’ll bet I can fix this,” he said to himself as he studied the damaged bow. A moment later he was climbing the ladder and reentering the cabin. After several minutes Jim yelled, “Hey Gerry, do me a favor and bring me the tool box and flashlight.”

  Gerry grabbed the box and soon found Jim on his hands and knees in the forward cabin of the craft, his head and shoulders wedged under a small settee.

  “I should be able to access the bilge from somewhere around here. If I can, we should be able to see the frame and the backside of that impact point. We should be able to tell how big a deal it will be after seeing that.”

  Gerry agreed with the plan and the two began looking for the bilge access panels. Soon Jim found the latch and pulled a three-foot long by two-foot wide piece of cabin sole from its frame. The two examined the inside of the bilge. Gerry looked at Jim but didn’t say anything.

  “That’s odd,” Jim said.

  “What is that?” Gerry asked.

  There was no bilge. Instead, another panel lay just under the cabin sole they had removed. Gerry shinned the flashlight along the new panel. Finally, he spotted four large screw heads, one at each corner. Jim grabbed a screwdriver and they removed the cover. Inside they found six crates of Canadian Whiskey, only these were full.

  It took a moment for Eve and Sherrie to climb the ladder and join Jim and Gerry in the boat. Soon the four had removed the six cases to the floor of the barn.

  “I think this is a smuggler’s boat. That extra little storage area must have been added to the boat after it was built,” Jim said while climbing back up the ladder.

  “You really think so? That’s too cool!” Sherrie said.

  “Bet there’s more,” Eve added.

  “What makes you say that?” Gerry asked.

  “Well, if I’m going to all the trouble to outfit this big boat to smuggle booze I’m going to take a lot, not a little. And let’s face it, six cases is really not that much.” Eve seemed confident in her guess.

  Jim studied Eve for a moment, “You’re right, that makes sense, let’s keep looking.” It took nearly thirty minutes, but they found five more compartments. All were empty save one, and it held an additional four cases of hard liquor. By now there was no doubt, this was indeed a bootlegger’s boat. They loaded the ten cases of liquor in the bed of Gerry’s truck and returned to the barn.

  Jim and Gerry climbed back into the boat and began to examine the false bilge. “This might give us a better chance to see the inside framing,” Jim said to Gerry. He stretched out on the floor. Then, on his back, Jim slowly inched his head and shoulders inside the large compartment hidden in the bilge. The walls were made of pine boards with several coats of shellac to seal them from bilge water. Using the flashlight Jim examined the compartment interior. Solid walls. He would have to drill a hole.

  Gerry sat on the settee next to where Jim lay. “See anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing, we’re going to need a hole saw to get past these walls.”

  Chapter 22

  As the nation’s economy sputtered Cole’s days had become increasingly empty. There simply wasn’t anything to do in the shop. He did his best to hide it. Each morning began exactly the same. Elaine, the master of the cutting remark, made some comment about how she wanted to move to Grand Rapids, Chicago or Ann Arbor and he pretended there was something important to do at the office. There wasn’t. There hadn’t been anything to do there in months, but Cole felt like he had to keep up the appearance. Normally he slipped out of the office about noon. He’d head to the golf course or take a turn of the lake on one of his boats. Although lately he’d spent more time on a sailboat than a powerboat. The days of burning a hundred dollars of gas in an afternoon were coming to an end.

  This morning however he did have an important meeting. His banker, Alan Wisecup, seemed to be very concerned about Cole’s loan payments. To Cole, Wisecup was the perfect banker. He wasn’t young. He was youngish. Which meant that he should have been promoted long ago. He hadn’t been which meant he wasn’t very good and he was still young enough to be stupid. He seemed to be a bit of, well, he seemed like a pencil pushing geek. Cole always had to work at not laughing outright at the man. Young, pencil pushing geeks were good, they could be pushed around.

 
; Cole knew Wisecup was coming with bad news. The loans were coming due in less than ninety days. But, he was certain he could either talk the tight wad sonofabitch into an extension on the loan or simply refinance the entire thing.

  This was important. The small amount of cash the business generated from boat repair, storage and commission sales wasn’t covering the note. Hell, it barely covered his house payment and the payroll for the four remaining employees.

  At ten o’clock sharp Alan Wisecup, deputy chief loan officer of the Traverse Savings and Investment Bank walked through the door of Prestcott Boats. The secretary, Donna LeGrange, directed him to a seat in the waiting area in front of her desk. A move which annoyed Mr. Wisecup; he’d expected to be shown right to Cole’s office. Donna offered him water, not coffee, which also annoyed Wisecup. Then she disappeared into Cole’s office.

  Alan hated Cole Prestcott, hated him more than anyone or anything in this world. A year ago his promotion looked certain, now this loan made him look like a fool. Worse yet the auditors might find how he had altered the books and made this incompetent show horse look like the second coming of Warren Buffett.

  He had tried to force Prestcott to pay his bills, but it hadn’t happened. Now all he could hope for was to break even. He opened his briefcase, a shabby, tattered brown affair and removed a multicolored spreadsheet. The payment history was bad, Prestcott hadn’t made a full payment in the past five months. The cash flow looked worse, maybe if he took the house there would be enough there. Wisecup grimaced. He had to get this loan off the books before some auditor came snooping around. The house, the boathouse, the boats, the company. Maybe he could save his job and stay out of prison.

  “Cole baby, the banker is here” Donna was a constant source of amazement to Cole. She knew the situation; she couldn’t help but know the situation. She had to know the business was in trouble. She had watched the parking lot empty itself over the past six months. Hell, she’d typed the lay-off notices. Now there were only five cars if you counted Cole’s, four if Jim Abbot rode with his brother. But she never mentioned it, never asked Cole about it and never treated a banker any better than dirt.