by Alan Mulak
Pam nodded again. “There are some that will say this is a bit severe and…”
“Have you ever been bullied?” Martin interrupted. "Have you ever been ridiculed to the point of tears? You don't have to answer my questions, but if you were, you would agree it is a life-changing experience. I repeat: a life-changing experience.”
Alex reached over to the end-table, grabbed the remote, and turned off the television. Then he walked outside and sat on his porch, watching the river flow by as the daylight faded. What a day, he thought. And the kick in the ass is; I have no one I can talk to about any of this.
12
Mackenzie’s Slater Ranch
Dolores, Colorado is a small town, and after the tourists depart for their more civilized homesteads, the town gets much smaller. Word of Alex's magic with tax returns spread faster than a summer thunderstorm. Suddenly, those who had previously ignored Alex were giving him a nod, and those who were previously giving him a nod were now saying hello, and those who were already saying hello, were downright friendly. His status had been elevated from outsider to townie.
When Alex showed up for work, Neil was there as usual, but he was not alone. Seated at the bar was a woman wearing jeans and a white cable knit sweater. She stood when Alex came in and extended her hand. "Hi, I'm MacKenzie Ryan." She wore no jewelry or makeup but had a glow and a natural beauty about her.
They shook hands. “Alex Delvecchio.”
“I was wondering if we could talk for a few minutes.”
“I have to work. Maybe later…”
Neil, who was unloading the dishwasher, said, “Go ahead and chat. Take it out back, on the patio. Consider this your first break. But don’t be too long or I’ll dock your wages.”
MacKenzie refilled her beer, then, pushing Neil out of the way, said to Alex, “A real bastard, ain’t he?”
Alex smiled. Clearly, these two knew each other quite well.
They took the same wrought iron table where he had sat with Neil the week before. The late afternoon sun was slipping behind the mountains. It would be another cool September evening.
MacKenzie said, “Neil’s been telling anyone who will listen all about the tax return work you did for him.”
Alex smiled. “That’s what I do. Or, at least, used to do.”
“I own the Slater Ranch up the highway. We haven’t turned a profit in three years, but I believe we can. I was wondering if you could take a look at my operation - from a financial perspective - and give me some advice. Think of it as a consultant CFO.”
“Well,” Alex said, scratching his beard. “First, what is the Slater Ranch? And second, I’m already working here for Neil. When did you…”
“Don’t worry about Neil,” MacKenzie interrupted. “I’ll take care of him. We’re good friends. Plus, I’m not looking to steal you from him, just borrow you for a little while. He’ll be okay because in the fall, business really slows down here at the Brewery, and he can spare you for a few weeks.”
“It may take more than a few…”
“All right, months then. Have you been here in the winter?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll see what I mean.”
“Okay. So what do you do at the Slater Ranch?”
"We provide a retreat for over-stressed city dwellers. Twelve cabins, a rustic lodge with six more condominiums, elegant dining area, massive fieldstone fireplaces, leather furniture to sit and read the latest best-seller, horses to ride, trails to hike, bikes to pedal, a river to fish – all with a backdrop of the Rockies. Everything you'd need to forget about the Dow Jones Industrial average."
“Sounds inviting.”
“It is…or at least it should be.”
Alex opened his hands. “What’s the problem?”
MacKenzie shook her head. “I don’t know. We’ve seemed to be busy enough, but the cash isn’t there. Something’s not right.”
“Do you have a CFO or controller of some sort?”
"We've had two. The first, Horny Charlie, ran off with one of the guests. Last I heard they were married in Reno, and now, fornicating their way across America. The second, Clarence, a CPA from Los Angeles with wire-rimmed glasses and a long pointy nose, lasted almost a year before Colorado got to him. One day, he was walking from the lodge to his bright red Porsche when a bear ambled by. This particular bear is always snooping around the dumpster and is as dangerous as a big marshmallow. It'll run away if you so much as sneeze. But for Clarence, that was the last straw. The lack of big-city amenities had been taking its toll on poor Clarence, and then the bear simply pushed him over the edge. He got in his car, turned west on the highway, and didn't stop until he reached the Pacific Ocean. A week or so later, he called me and asked to have his laptop and other personal items mailed to his new address, and that was that. So the answer to your question is no. Or yes, that's me!" She smiled.
“Well,” Alex said, “if Neil can spare me, I guess I could take a look.”
"It's settled then. See you on Monday. Ten A.M." MacKenzie then got up and marched inside to tell Neil about the plans. By the time Alex entered the bar area, she was leaving. MacKenzie looked over her shoulder as she departed, saying, "See you next Monday. Bye-bye, sweetie.”
Alex looked at Neil. “Am I sweetie or is that you?”
Neil shrugged. “We’re just good friends.”
Sunday was a most unusual day: gray, steady, light rain. Weather such as this is commonplace in New England, but rare in Colorado – especially in September. One upside of a dark and misty day is the fact that trout lose their caution in low light, and thus feed all day. Experienced fly fishermen know this. Alex waded into the Lower Dolores River – the catch and release section, where all trout must be returned to the river unharmed, to hopefully grow bigger - at about ten A.M. and proceeded to catch trout until, at about four P.M., his shoulder and upper back howled with pain, forcing him to quit. It was a fabulous day.
On his way home, he dropped into Pepperheads Mexican Restaurant to grab a take-out supper. While waiting at the counter, using the large mirrors behind the row of tequila bottles, he casually checked out the clientele. It was mostly Navaho or Hispanic families, enjoying Sunday dinner. But way over in one corner, where the light was lower, and away from the noisy families, a couple cuddled together in a booth. Clearly, they were enjoying each other's company, and perhaps making plans for the rest of the evening. Then he looked again: it was MacKenzie Ryan and Neil Wilson!
"That will be nine dollars," the waitress said, handing Alex his takeout.
As he paid, Alex asked, “That couple back there in the corner, could you bring them another round of whatever they are drinking? Put it on my bill.”
The waitress looked, and then over her shoulder said something in Spanish to another waitress, who nodded and took two Dos Equis beers from the cooler. She then put them on a tray and headed over to the two lovebirds. Alex paid the bill, picked up his supper and headed for the door. As he exited, he looked back to where the two drinks were being delivered, and the waitress was pointing his way. MacKenzie and Neil looked up. Alex smiled, tipped his Broncos' cap. Just good friends my ass!
13
Something is Rotten at Slater
Alex turned off the highway, drove along a winding gravel road, across the bridge spanning the Upper Dolores River, under the overhead WELCOME to SLATER RANCH arching sign, and then pulled into the visitor parking space. He turned off the engine, and sat for a minute, taking in the view. The lodge-pole ranch sat amid a pastoral floodplain, complete with grazing horses and split rail fences. At the far side of the pasture, an army of aspens guarded the approach to a wall of mountains jutting skyward.
He stepped out of his truck and watched a Bald Eagle glide by, its white head glowing from the late morning sun.
“What do you think?” a woman’s voice asked from the porch. It was MacKenzie Ryan.
Alex continued to watch the eagle until it disappeared from view, slipping behind the
massive cottonwood trees that lined the river bank. “Can I use the word spectacular or is there a better word?”
“That’ll do.” She walked down the steps from the porch and approached, hand extended. “Welcome. I’m glad to see you.”
MacKenzie wore the standard Colorado uniform: jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved, plaid cotton shirt with pearl buttons. Her light-brown hair was pulled back in a pony-tail, and she wore a cowboy hat. No makeup. No jewelry. The same natural beauty. And a big smile.
They shook hands. Alex said, “Nice place you’ve got here.”
MacKenzie jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. Her face lost its smile. “I hope I can keep it.”
“And that,” Alex said, “is why I’m here. Correct?”
“Let’s go grab a coffee. I just put on a fresh pot.”
They entered the lodge, walked through a cavernous great room - small fire snapping in the fireplace - past the registration desk, down a short hallway, and then grabbed a table by the sunny window on the far side of the empty dining room. The walls were covered with Remington prints and framed pictures of past guests, the tables draped with white linen, and the golden shafts of sunlight streaming through the wood-framed huge windows played upon the far wall. The pleasant aroma of cooking chili, fried bacon, and wood-smoke wafted throughout.
“Smells good in here,” Alex said.
Mackenzie smiled. “After a while, I don’t even notice.”
They each took a seat. A coffee pot was brought to the table along with two mugs, which were promptly filled.
MacKenzie began. “First, thanks for coming. Make sure you keep track of your time and expenses and bill me weekly, monthly, or whatever interval works for you. Now, I’ll get straight to the point. As I mentioned last week, I’m losing money. The business side of Slater Ranch has lost money the last three years, and we're well into the red again this year."
Alex sipped his coffee. “I can look at the tax returns…”
“More than that. I need you to look at every aspect of this operation. My skills with a spreadsheet are abysmal, I don’t understand accounting, and hell, I have a hard time balancing my checkbook. In short, I need a CFO. What do you think?”
“I can try, but my expertise is…"
“Try is good enough for me.” She stood. “Follow me. I’ll show you to your office.”
One week later, Alex walked into Mackenzie’s office, shutting the door behind him. He opened his laptop and sat down in the guest chair. MacKenzie was methodically wringing her hands. “Well?”
Alex adjusted his reading glasses. “Not bad news. Not great news but not bad news.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Your taxes aren’t in bad shape. I found only a handful of missed deductions, and went ahead and filled out an amended return. Once you sign, I’ll send it in. You’ll get just under three thousand dollars back. I recommend you apply the refund to the next quarter’s taxes. The Feds like it when you do that.”
“I was hoping for more.”
Alex shrugged. “Well, when the accountants filed your taxes for the previous two years, everything was right on target. However, last year, when you filed the return…”
“Okay, okay. So I screwed up. I told you I was lousy with numbers.” She smiled faintly. “What else?”
Alex closed his laptop. "This next matter is a bit more difficult but way more important. But let me say this, if we can sort this one out, your financial picture will brighten significantly and you'll be turning a good dollar. Further, I'm going to recommend you get busy and winterize some of the cabins. I think you can make some serious dollars if you stay open during the winter, catering to the thousands of skiers who drive by your front door every day, on their way up to Telluride Mountain for a day on the slopes."
MacKenzie stood up and walked over to the window in her office, which overlooked the meadow below. She stared out the window. “And what is this difficult problem?”
Alex leaned back in his chair. “Your employees are stealing you blind.”
MacKenzie did not move. “I thought this might be the case, but didn’t want to believe it. Denial is quite powerful. Do you know who? Specifically?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, and think I can fix the problem. At least some of it.”
“Are you going to suggest I fire the bunch of them?”
Alex rocked back and forth. “Not yet. That would be the last resort.”
MacKenzie turned and looked at Alex. “This ranch is my life. I love it here, but we’re sinking. I know all I have to do is tack up a For Sale sign out front, and the big money builders will be lined up outside the front door, waving huge sums of cash at me. Here’s the deal: it’s not about the money. Oh sure, I need to make a profit, at least some of the time, but I don’t care if I never get rich. However, the thought of selling these four thousand acres to some big-city developer so more million-dollar condominiums can be built makes me physically ill.”
Alex nodded, and then said, “Let me see if I can fix this problem.”
14
Chapter Fourteen – The Swedish Chef and the Hole in the Wall Gang
October is the last busy month of the year at Slater Ranch. Aspens turn golden-yellow which brings out a bevy of leaf-peepers to enjoy the foliage. They, in turn, book all the rooms and the restaurant sells out nightly.
It was just after midnight on Saturday, October 4, when the lights went out in the kitchen. Wood smoke from the lodge hugged the ground, mixing with the fog that was flowing in from the river.
Shortly after that, the back door opened and head chef Gustaf Lagerstrom emerged into the darkness, struggling with two large boxes. “Jabba,” as he was derisively known – referring to his circumferential girth – was habitually the last one out, closing up every night. His mop of blond hair glowed in the moonlight as he shuffled across the parking lot to his BMW. He lowered the two boxes and clicked open the trunk.
Alex stepped out of the shadows. “Look at all those stars.”
Gustaf jumped, shouted something in Swedish, then in broken English yelled, “Who the blazes are you?”
“I’m the new guy, Alex Delvecchio. MacKenzie hired me to look over the books and help with the taxes. We haven’t formally met yet, but I’ve seen you around.”
“Well, you shouldn’t lurk around in the darkness, scaring people,” Gustaf fumed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
Both men stared at each other in the darkness. Alex crossed his arms and smiled. I can take him. He’d go down with a good kick in the nuts, and then a right cross to the jaw.
Gustaf straightened his soiled white shirt, and slid over, attempting to block the two boxes he had placed on the ground. “Well, if you wanted to see me, make an appointment. We can talk tomorrow. I had a busy night and want to go home.”
“You did have a busy night,” Alex said cheerfully. “You served eighty-seven dinners. That’s damn near a record.”
Gustaf said nothing but tilted his head slightly.
“I’ll wager you are wondering how I know that. Yes? It’s those wireless devices your servers use to record the order and process the bill. They’re called Point of Sale Systems or POSs. With those little gadgets, I can track what’s happening in your dining room from my office, way over there.” He pointed to the other side of the lodge. “Which is why I’ve been waiting for you, out here, watching all these beautiful stars.” The cheeriness suddenly vanished. “And no, we’re not going to talk tomorrow, and you’re not going home just yet. We’re going to talk right now.”
Another tense pause.
“You see, I’m really curious. I’ve gone back for the last two years – which is when you bought those POS wireless devices for your wait staff – and added up all sorts of things. That’s what we accountants do: you like to cook, we like to add numbers. For example, did you know, your customers are drinking roughly 1.1 bottles of wine with every meal? And that includes br
eakfast. That’s a whole shitload of wine! Then there are the 1.25 steaks and prime ribs per customer. Holy shit! No wonder there’s no steers in the meadow. And by the way, your expenses per meal work out to be 133% of the menu cost! That's a huge cost per unit, as we accountants like to say. And lately, I've been watching what our guests eat for breakfast and lunch. I didn't see any bottles of wine or slabs of beef. In fact, I believe our breakfast and lunch menu doesn't even offer these items. So how in the world are we ringing up such impressive numbers on a per meal basis? Are we feeding whole armies of drunken carnivores every evening? Are the Denver Broncos staying with us? How can you explain such a phenomenon? Any guesses?"
Another tense pause.
Alex stepped close to Gustaf, well within arm’s reach. “Let me give you a hint. We can start with those two cases of wine you are trying to hide with your fat ass. The reason for all these outrageous overages is you. You're stealing food and wine at a remarkable rate. At first, I couldn't believe my eyes. Surely, I must have made some kind of mistake, but no, I'm right. A few steaks from time to time, or bottle of wine here or there, no problem. But you’ve gotten greedy. I don’t know where it’s going or what you’re doing with it all, but it’s over. Right now.”
Alex was close enough to hear the other man’s breathing. It was short and raspy; the gasps of a frightened man.
Silence.
“Okay,” Alex said. “You have three choices. Number one, you can get into your car and drive off, never to be seen again. I hope you don’t do that because you’re a great chef with a renowned reputation. Number two, you and I can carry these two cases of wine back inside, and from this point forward, you play it straight. No more stealing. No bull shit. And with a little luck, the ranch will start turning a profit. Number three, you keep pilfering as you have for the last three years. However, if you choose number three, I’m going to call the immigration boys and have them pay you a visit. A little birdie told me you have some expired green cards living in your house. Those guys can be nasty and make your life miserable. So there you have it, three choices.”