Shell Game (Stand Alone 2)

by Badal, Joseph

  Edward made eye contact with Paul, who looked surprised.

  “We’re listening.” Edward asked, suspicious.

  “The bank has the right to close down your operations in the instance of non-payment of your loan. We realize closing down your business locations will not be good for the real estate, the business operations, or the employees. Mr. Folsom’s proposal is as follows: If you agree to sign over all your rights to the business and assets, including the franchise agreements with Hot N’ Chili, Inc., the bank will immediately agree to forgive your bank debt.”

  “And if my client refuses to accept your offer?” Paul asked.

  “Then the bank will exercise its right to change the locks on all of your properties, close the restaurants, and fire the employees. But there’s one other part of the offer I need to bring to your attention. If you agree to our terms, Folsom Financial will sign a management contract with Winter Enterprises to manage the restaurant business for the next two years, with renewal options thereafter.”

  “How long is your offer open, Mr. Cunningham?” Paul asked.

  “Until 5 tomorrow evening.”

  “What about the cash balances?” Paul asked.

  “They would be part of the assets you sign over to the bank.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” Paul said. “You want Winter Enterprises to sign over $50 million in real estate, over $3 million in cash, and franchise rights worth millions, in return for forgiveness of $20 million in debt.”

  “And no exposure to a deficiency judgment should the ultimate sale of the company’s assets yield less than the total debt and related legal costs,” Cunningham added.

  “Anyone have any questions?” Edward asked. When no one asked anything, he said, “We’ll be in touch.”

  No one spoke after Edward hung up—it was as though all the oxygen had been sucked from the room—Edward looked at his mother and saw she was crying. He stood, walked around his desk, sat next to her on the couch, and put an arm around her.

  “It’s better than the alternatives we had just a few minutes ago,” he said.

  “Is it?” Katherine said. “You’d be working for that sonofabitch, Folsom. He stole your father’s bank and now he’s taking the business you’ve built.”

  Edward kissed his mother on the cheek and stood. “Mom, I will never work for a man who has visited so much evil on this family.” He turned to look at Nick. “How do you feel about running Winter Enterprises?”

  Nick’s head came up and he looked suddenly ghostly pale. “I thought we agreed if we lost the business we would start all over again. As a team.”

  “Think about it, Nick. Without either of us there’s no Winter Enterprises and Folsom’s deal would collapse. All of our employees would be out on the street. Although most of them will find other jobs, in this economy, some will still be unemployed after their severance pay runs out. If you stay on, they keep their jobs and, at the end of two years, if you want to, you can walk away from Folsom and join me. But at least you’ll have an executive job in the interim.”

  Nick looked around at the group and shook his head. “This is emotional blackmail,” he said.

  Edward smiled. “It’s also the right thing to do.”

  “Let’s see what happens with my request for an injunction,” Paul said.

  “Does anyone think Folsom’s offer is beyond surprising?” Carrie asked.

  “Yes,” Edward said. “But it makes sense on two levels. One, he knows no one can run this business better than we can, which means he’ll make more money with Winter Enterprises and its employees at the helm than without.”

  “And the second level?” Carrie said.

  “I can answer that,” Katherine said bitterly. “Nothing would give that bastard more pleasure than having Frank Winter’s son taking orders from him.”

  “Oh, my God!” Betsy suddenly cried. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and leaned forward as though she were in terrible pain.

  Stunned silence struck the room and no one moved.

  “The baby!” Betsy shrieked.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Betsy Winter’s obstetrician walked exhaustedly from the hospital operating room to the waiting room, her head down and her hands in the pockets of her green surgical scrubs.

  “How is she?” Edward asked, his face drawn with stress and fear.

  The doctor looked up at Edward, as members of his family and friends gathered around him. “Betsy’s fine.” The doctor smiled. “And so’s the baby. You have a healthy son.”

  Edward moved back a step as though he’d been struck. “The baby? Betsy wasn’t due for another six weeks.”

  “All indications were this pregnancy would go full term. Everything was fine, Mr. Winter; I don’t understand why the baby came prematurely. Has Betsy been under any undue stress lately?”

  Edward thought about the strain they had all been under, but it hit him that he had not considered Betsy’s pregnancy might be impacted by troubles at work. He had not considered Betsy at all. The business had occupied all his thoughts and time. He felt sick with guilt.

  “Can I see her, Doctor?”

  “Of course. Come with me.”

  Edward followed the doctor to the recovery room and spied Betsy in a gurney bed in the middle of the room. She looked pale and tired, strands of wet hair plastered to her forehead. He rushed to her, took her hand, and kissed her lips.

  “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  “About what? We have a beautiful son.”

  “About not thinking about you. About being so focused on the business. Nothing is more important to me than you, but that’s not the way I’ve acted lately.”

  Betsy patted his cheek and squeezed his hand. “Everything’s going to be all right, Eddie. I just know it.”

  “Everything is just right,” he said. “You’re okay and we have a son.”

  A nurse interrupted and told them she had to get Mrs. Winter up to her room.

  “Why don’t you go take a look at your son,” Betsy suggested. “By the way, I’ve been considering names. I know we’ve talked about it, but I’ve made up my mind. Franklin Edward Winter, after your father.”

  Edward found the maternity ward and located the bassinette with “Baby Winter” on the end. He hadn’t thought about what the premature baby would look like, but was shocked to see how small his son was compared to the half-dozen other infants in the room.

  “It’s amazing how big he is considering he came six weeks early.”

  Edward looked at his mother. “I didn’t hear you come up. He looks so tiny.”

  “Five pounds, six ounces isn’t that tiny. My God, if he had gone full term he could have been a twelve pounder.”

  “Where are the others?” Edward asked.

  “Waiting for you to tell them it’s okay to join us.”

  “All things considered,” Edward said, “I’m pretty lucky. Great family and great friends, and now a son.”

  “Yes, son, you’re a very lucky man. Have you named the baby yet?”

  “Betsy has. She named him after Dad. Franklin Edward Winter.”

  Katherine stepped into her son’s arms and hugged him. It took several minutes before she stopped crying.

  FRIDAY

  JULY 29, 2011

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Carrie called her old Army compatriot, Darren Noury, at 7 a.m. and asked him to meet her.

  “Everything okay?”

  “I’ve still got concerns.”

  “I’ll bring Mike with me,” he said, referring to Mike Perico who had helped out in Pastorius Park.

  “I’m at the Northwest Marriott Hotel. In the coffee shop.”

  “We’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  “You sure Mike’s available on such short notice?”

  “Naturally. He’s always ready for action.” He laughed and hung up.

  Darren called Mike Perico on his cell phone. Mike, a pharmaceutical rep for one of the big drug companie
s, usually started his days at 7 a.m. and finished at around 3 p.m.

  “What are you doing?” Darren asked.

  “Meeting with a bunch of interns at a hospital. I brought in donuts. I’m about to tell them what a great drug we have, then I’ll give them a bunch of pens and note pads.”

  “That stuff really gets them to prescribe your products?”

  “Mostly the donuts.”

  “Carrie called. She needs to see us.”

  “Gee, I don’t know if I can break away right now. I’ve got eight interns hanging on my every word. Besides, I’ll have to report to my boss about this meeting. I can’t very well tell him I paid for donuts and then walked out.”

  “I think we’re talking about bad guys here.”

  “Action?”

  “Carrie attracts action like sugar attracts ants.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Northwest Marriott Hotel coffee shop at 7:30.”

  Carrie was seated in a corner booth when Darren and Mike arrived. She thanked the men for coming on such short notice.

  “What’s up?” Mike asked, his bright blue eyes sparkling with excitement.

  Carrie looked at Mike and then at Darren. They were both calm, but she sensed the adrenaline running through their veins. Two good looking guys—recruiter poster perfect—ready to take on trouble whenever a friend called. She understood once again why she loved being an officer in the U.S. military.

  “As I explained before we did that thing in the park, my mother befriended a woman named Wendy Folsom who was badly abused by her husband. An assassin was hired to kill Wendy. The assassin entered my mother’s home and would have completed the job if I hadn’t interrupted her.”

  “Interrupted?” Darren said, a smile creasing his face.

  “I got her to tell me who hired her by agreeing to let her go. I didn’t see any point in telling the police what her real purpose was; I figured whoever hired her was a middle man anyway. The police would never have been able to pin anything on the client unless the guy who brokered the hit rolled over. And as I learned during my meeting in Pastorius Park, the broker wasn’t willing to disclose who hired him.”

  “The middle man was the guy in the park?” Darren asked.

  “Yeah. But as I said, he clammed up. So I never did find out who paid him to murder Wendy.”

  “But you think you know who hired him, don’t you?” Mike said.

  “I’m pretty sure it was her husband, Gerald Folsom. And I don’t think the guy’s going to stop trying to take her out.”

  “What else?” Darren asked.

  “What do you mean, what else?” Carrie said.

  “It can’t be that simple.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know you, Carrie. Come on, what else?”

  “Well, I might have cold-cocked the husband when he tried to get fresh with me.”

  “He touched you?” Mike asked, his eyes now slits.

  “He tried to,” Carrie answered, wondering at Mike’s reaction.

  “I’m going to rip his balls off.”

  A woman at a table several feet away scowled at Carrie and covered the ears of a little girl seated next to her. The little girl was laughing hysterically.

  Carrie put a finger to her lips, telling Mike to keep his voice down.

  “Okay, here’s the deal. My mother, Wendy Folsom, and I are staying here in room 1045. We’ll be here until tomorrow morning. I want you two to watch the hotel once it gets dark until we leave in the morning, and then follow us to my mother’s place. Then I’m going to move Mrs. Folsom down to Cape May to a bungalow there. As long as she doesn’t use her credit cards or her cell phone, her husband shouldn’t be able to find her. Hopefully, they’ll throw his ass in jail and she can go somewhere where she can make a new life for herself. Once we get her to Cape May, your job will be done.”

  “You call it a job. Does that mean we’re going to be compensated?” Darren asked, smiling.

  “Of course,” she said. “You’ll receive the most valuable compensation there is: My undying gratitude and eternal respect.”

  “Thank goodness,” he said. “I thought we might be working for nothing.”

  Then Darren told her to come outside with them. At his car, he popped the trunk, removed a satchel, and handed it to her. “Just in case,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  At 10 a.m., Paul Sanders met with Byron LaMotte, the most respected district judge in the Philadelphia area. The judge gave Paul the opportunity to brief him on background information behind the reason for his injunction request. This was more leeway than the judge would have granted most attorneys, but Paul was an old friend and a respected colleague.

  After Paul had finished his presentation, Judge LaMotte said, “I think you knew what I would say when you walked in here. I agree there is plenty of circumstantial evidence showing that your client has been, at a minimum, taken advantage of, and at worst, cheated out of the ownership of his company. But there isn’t evidence a crime has been committed. In the absence of such evidence, I am not about to set a precedent that would undermine the contractual rights of lending institutions. I’m sorry, Paul, but you’re going to have to come up with something more definitive for me to take action.”

  Paul was dejected, but not surprised. “I appreciate your time, Judge. You’re right. I anticipated you would rule as you have, but I had to try anyway. I have never seen a more inequitable situation.”

  Paul left the courthouse and called Edward’s cell. As the phone rang he considered that he might have misspoken to Judge LaMotte. He had seen a situation at least as inequitable as what was happening to Edward. It was when Frank Winter, Edward’s father, had died and Gerald Folsom took over Winter’s bank and real estate assets, stealing Frank Winter’s legacy to his wife and children.

  “Hello.”

  “Edward, it’s Paul. I just left Judge LaMotte’s chambers. He declined my request for an injunction against the bank.”

  “Thanks for trying, Paul. It was a long shot. You said so yourself last night.”

  “How’s Betsy?”

  “She’s doing great. The hospital will be discharging her on Saturday afternoon.”

  “Have you decided about Folsom’s offer?”

  “I decided last night,” Edward said. “I was just waiting to see what happened with the judge this morning. I don’t have a choice. It’s the only way my people will keep their jobs.

  “I do need your help on something, though. Cunningham said on the call last night that Folsom wanted Winter Enterprises to manage the restaurants. I want to hold a special board meeting. The only items on the agenda will be my resignation from the company and Nick Scarfatti’s promotion to CEO. We’ll hold the meeting after we sign the documents with Folsom. He won’t like it, my being gone, but after the deal is executed, there’s nothing he can do about it.”

  “What are you going to do, Edward?”

  “I’m going to start again in New York. Pete Mora at Hot N’ Chili folks already said they will work with me. The money in the company’s account at Third Community Bank should be more than enough to open a couple stores and cover working capital until the stores are cash flowing. I should be in good enough condition within two years to bring Nick over, assuming he’ll want to.”

  “The cash sitting in your account at Third Community Bank is an asset of the corporation. Cunningham said the deal was for all corporate assets.”

  Edward’s jaw clenched and he took in a great breath. “Paul, without that cash, I might as well fight Folsom and let the bank go through the whole foreclosure process. I don’t think he wants that. Make sure the agreement excludes those monies.”

  “Okay, I’ll get on it.”

  “By the way,” Edward said, “did you see this morning’s paper?”

  “No, I didn’t get the chance. Why?”

  “The Journal had a front-page article about Folsom and Broad Street National Bank. It had a lot of innuendo
wrapped around some interesting facts and figures. The bottom line is it makes Folsom look like the asshole he is.” Edward laughed. “He’s got to be fuming.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Folsom hadn’t been able to sleep most of the night. He’d finally dropped off at 5 a.m. and woke at 10:30 a.m. when he heard the cleaning lady moving around.

  “Sonofabitch!” he groaned as he sat on the side of his bed and used his hands to brush his hair off his forehead. He showered and shaved and then went downstairs, where he knew Esmeralda would have coffee and the morning paper waiting for him.

  “Good morning, Meester Fullsome,” Esmeralda greeted him.

  “Fullsome, my ass,” he muttered under his breath.

  “You want café?” she asked.

  “Yes, Esmeralda.”

  “The paper ees on the table.”

  Folsom moved to the kitchen table and sat down, slipping the rubber band off the paper and spreading it out in front of him as Esmeralda placed a cup to the side of the newspaper. He lifted the cup, but stopped halfway to his mouth as his gaze froze on the headline: BROAD STREET NATIONAL BANK AND THE FDIC. Under the banner headline, in smaller print, was: COMPLAINTS AND CHARGES OF CORRUPTION.

  If that headline wasn’t enough to ruin his day, the first paragraph of the article guaranteed it:

  From a complex collection of information gathered by this newspaper, including statements provided by the former president of Broad Street National Bank and documents submitted by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, it has become apparent that activities of Broad Street National Bank’s new owner, Folsom Financial Corporation, are destroying perfectly viable businesses in the Philadelphia area. Additionally, it appears the bank’s actions are personally benefitting Folsom Financial Corporation’s owner, Gerald Folsom, at the expense of the bank’s customers.

  Folsom threw the cup at the wall, shattering it and splashing coffee on the wall paper and the floor.

  Esmeralda screamed.

  “Bastards!” Folsom shouted, “Goddam bastards!”