The borrower claimed Bone had agreed, on behalf of the bank Bone represented, to accept a lowball offer to settle their dispute. In exchange, Bone was to get an under the table payoff. The bank manager backed the borrower and after a long litigation which Bone lost, he left California in disgrace, no wife, no legal practice and no way to start a new one.
He ended up working for Seth Campbell, a real estate developer headquartered in Lawton, MS, after rescuing his daughter, Sonja, from an assault by two thugs in a rough bar where Bone was having a late-night beer. She’d been dumped there by her boyfriend at the time after an argument. That rescue got Bone a job working in Seth’s campaign for governor, a campaign he lost. But, Bone observed, his heart was never in it anyway.
Seth’s business at that time was building factory outlet centers all over the south. However, that business had more or less dried up so he returned to his beginnings – building commercial properties, some on spec, some on contract. It didn’t much matter if he worked or not, since he’d inherited a ton of money from his family, timber and oil, but he had too much energy to do nothing.
Thanks to Seth’s contacts, Bone developed bank contacts around the state. He handled their field work, including everything from inspecting small businesses with existing bank loans, getting current financial statements and reporting on how they were doing and making recommendations when they weren’t doing well as they should, to “working out” problem loans in default. Those loans were usually in the millions. He had one of those just then. Its balance was over four million.
The work didn’t make him rich, but that, and other income from his later settlement with the crooked developer and bank officer gave him as much as he needed. Their fraud had almost killed him, but on the plus side, he’d ended up in Mississippi as a result, and had taken to the kind of laid-back easy way of life Mississippians enjoyed. The bank assignments gave him a sense of satisfaction; handling their negotiations, doing the necessary documentation and exercising some creativity in solving the problems of the borrowers he came into contact with. The work kept his mind working which he felt was important.
He’d passed the Mississippi bar so he could represent himself as a lawyer and take cases when the need arose, as it did now and then, when one of his assignments couldn’t be negotiated successfully to a satisfactory conclusion.
Bishop was thinking about the details of his most recent assignment from one of the larger banks in Lawton. The loan was over four million dollars and had been used to construct and outfit a complex of buildings in which chickens were grown to harvest weight under contract with a large poultry producer headquartered in Lawton, Hilton Farms. The report the bank had given him said the loan covered sixteen chicken houses.
“Man was serious about growing chickens,” Bishop said aloud as he read the report.
The original borrower, Jasper Watson, had had a stroke and died. His son, Welborn Watson, inherited the buildings and the loan that encumbered them a year earlier. The loan hadn’t been officially transferred to Welborn by the bank. He’d proposed it, but the loan officer wanted him to demonstrate an ability to manage the business of growing chickens before he’d recommend a transfer to a loan committee.
The loan had been paying as regular as the Spring rains since Welborn inherited it, however, recently, he’d fallen behind by three months so it wasn’t likely the loan would ever be transferred.
Bishop had met with Welborn a couple of weeks before. The son seemed reasonable enough when Bishop asked him for a schedule of monthly payments he could meet to bring the loan current.
Bishop thought he looked like he spent some time in the gym working out, and seemed to become agitated when Bishop pressed him about why he’d fallen behind. His dad had never missed a payment.
He’d told Bishop that he’d had to make improvements to the buildings. That was why he’d fallen behind. Bishop asked for the name of the contractor who’d made the improvements.
“Why do you want to know that? I’ve just told you what happened,” Welborn said, with not a little sarcasm in his reply. “Things get old. Have to be updated.”
“I asked because I have to check your excuse for my report to the bank. So, the name please,” Bishop said.
The man refused, saying, “I don’t want you meddling in my affairs.”
“I see. I don’t think we’re going to get far with your attitude,” Bishop said.
“My attitude! Hell, it’s your attitude!”
“I’ll report your responses to the bank. They’ll decide what to do with you,” Bishop said, and closed his notebook.
Welborn jumped to his feet and looked like he might want to take Bishop apart at that point.
The man’s reaction was totally unexpected and took him by surprise. What the hell, I’m here to help the son of a bitch and he’s acting like a jerk.
Big-assed bastard wants to take out his frustrations on me. I should ‘a brought my gun. He readied himself for an attack but didn’t have a plan.
I’ll have to play it by ear, he thought. But, as he usually did, he began to form a plan to survive the man’s attack if his reaction went that far the next time.
But after a couple of seconds of staring with clinched fists and a snarl on his face, the man eased back into his chair and said, “Tell you what, I’ll make my current payment and add a third to begin catching up with my back payments. Will that get you off my back?”
“I’ll report your offer to the bank. When will you make the current payment with the catch-up amount?”
“Next fuckin’ week! Okay?”
The bank accepted Welborn’s proposal to take care of his default, but Welborn didn’t make the payment as promised. The loan manager at the bank called Bishop to let him know.
So Bishop called Welborn to ask why he hadn’t. Welborn cursed at him and swore he hadn’t paid because he was working on a plan to make all back payments at one time, but he refused to give him a timeframe for doing that. Bishop reported that to the bank manager, who then asked Bishop to attend a bank meeting and give a recommendation.
Bishop told them they could file an action to foreclose and put someone in place to run the business. That would preserve the business, and make it more valuable when the foreclosure was completed.
The loan officer at the meeting said they should just foreclose. “I think we can sell the buildings and come close to getting the loan paid off. Unless Welborn tears them apart when we start the foreclosure.”
Bishop knew that upset borrowers often did just that. They destroyed the collateral or damaged it so much it wasn’t worth the loan balance, hoping that would discourage any action by the bank to take the collateral. He considered it counterproductive. If it did discourage a foreclosure, the borrower would be faced with repairing the damage before he could continue his business. And that would be unlikely if the borrower was already without money. But Bishop knew that borrowers under pressure from a bank didn’t always think clearly about what they were doing.
Bishop also considered such action to be a criminal offense – intentionally damaging the bank’s interest – but had never found a DA willing to prosecute such a case.
He suggested they could try to get a court order to force Welborn to stay out of the building but that would still mean they’d need somebody in place to competently manage the business. Chickens had to be fed and taken care of. The loan officer correctly said that managing the business would cost money.
“But that would make it more valuable to a buyer,” Bishop pointed out.
The meeting went back and forth without anybody from the bank willing to make a decision. Bishop sat there wondering what he should do next.
He finally told them he’d have one more go at the guy and report back. That satisfied the committee.
I’ll show up and confront the guy about his failure to send in a check as he’d agreed. Most likely he’ll try to stall. I won’t accept anymore stalling. I’ll tell him the bank will be filing a not
ice of default and foreclose.
That’ll probably piss him off, knowing the delays he bought with his bullshit have come to an end. At that point, he’ll either come up with the money or lose it – and attack the messenger of bad news, me. Big son of a bitch. If I take a gun, I’ll have a problem. I don’t have a license to carry a concealed weapon. So, no gun.
I don’t know how he’ll attack. Looked like he was going to try a wild swarm, swinging from the heels. No control. I’ll prepare myself for that. Duck and maybe take him down with a shoulder in the gut. Once he’s down, I should be able to handle him. Lots of ifs in all that. I could be the one on the ground, eating shoe leather.
*****
The sound of Kathy bounding up the steps as the sun was casting an orange sheen over the water of the beaver pond ended his thinking about Welborn Watson and brought a smile to his face. He got up and hurried to the front to greet her.
The back steps of his cabin were partially shadowed in twilight, which always gave her face an intriguing glow. In her hand was a bag that held a barbequed chicken and baked potatoes. The smell reached his nose before she got to the top. He smiled as he watched her come up the stairs.
She was wearing long jogging pants and a warm pullover that she filled in the right places. And not an ounce of anything excessive showed. She kept in top shape, jogging practically every day. Though April was warming from the cold of February and March, she had dressed for the chilly night. She knew they always ended up on the porch.
Her lips flashed a smile as she saw him. It gave him a lift on the worst of days and sent him into a dream state on the best of them. He pulled her close for a Mississippi body hug, kissed her hard and enjoyed the fragrance that came from the embrace. She wore Shalimar perfume, which he loved.
“I’m overjoyed every time I see you, Kathy. I love you, sweetheart.”
He released her and kissed her hard twice. And she responded.
“Thank you, Bishop,” she said. “I love you too.”
Her face was more round than narrow, but pretty, and it didn’t come with an ego like some did, he liked to tell himself. She was a brunette with sparkling brown eyes. The beginnings of gray had lightened her hair just enough to add a kind of mysterious charm to her appearance. She was in her early fifties, some ten years younger than him.
“Smells good,” he said, with a nod toward the barbequed chicken and potatoes in her hand.
He had half a notion to postpone their libation time on the porch, but didn’t. He knew she’d spend the night. She always did.
She wanted wine and he went along with that, although instead of the paint stripping red she liked, he opened a milder pink with a slight sweet taste. He put out nuts they could crunch while sipping the wine and enjoying the view of Indian Creek and the end of the beavers’ day in the pond on the other side of the creek.
She had put the chicken and potatoes with the delicious smells in the oven so they’d stay warm while they sipped wine on the porch. It was dusk dark by then, so Bishop turned on his outside lights. The ones he’d anchored in the creek turned the water an emerald green and added a special kind of warmth to everything. They watched the mosquitoes bounce off the porch screen as they tried to get inside for a bite of something that smelled good, human flesh.
Her eyes caressed his face as if searching for something. After all those years, he still found her fascinating. She reached over and squeezed his hand.
It’s a good day, he thought and kissed her again.
During dinner they discussed what had happened to them that day. They always seemed to have something to talk about. And each enjoyed hearing about what the other had to say.
She asked Bishop about his day, so he went first and told her about Welborn Watson’s defaulted loan.
“His dad borrowed close to five million dollars to build a huge complex of buildings to feed out chickens for Hilton Farms. The dad made regular payments, even doubled some, and reduced the loan to a bit over four million dollars. The old man died working in one of the buildings with his workers.”
“Sounds like a man who knew the value of hard work,” Kathy said between sips.
Bishop agreed with a nod of his head. “The son, Welborn, took over the business and did a good job according to the loan manager for a number of years, Paid the loan down some more. But then, he started missing payments. He’d catch up and miss more until finally the loan went on the default list at the bank and I got called in.”
“Made your day,” Kathy said with a smile. “When the going gets tough, call Bishop Bone.”
He nodded his head again, also with a smile. “The first meeting I had with him, he seemed embarrassed about the defaults and swore he’d catch up the next two months. Acted reasonable, like you might expect. He didn’t catch up though, and the last time I met with him he was a different man. Acted bizarre actually. Crazy, if I want to put another name to it. He told me he had made improvements in his barns but refused to give me the contractor’s name. Jumped up when I pressed him for it, like he was going to tear off my head.”
“Sounds like he was on something,” she said.
He hadn’t considered that, but it made some sense. “Could be,’ he said. “I guess that’s the only thing that really does makes any sense. I was there to help and he acted like I’d insulted his mother.”
“I’ve heard talk in the library about drugs around town,” she said.
“Be damned. That might explain his very odd behavior. I wonder.” Bishop said, as he stared across the creek considering what she’d said. He wondered what he could do with it however. People on drugs, he’d come to believe, didn’t act rationally, and wouldn’t as long as they were under the influence.
He’d have to think on that before he could decide how to handle it.
He looked at Kathy with a smile and said, “Well, enough about my life. What about your day?”
“Got in a new order of books to find room for. We’ll put a few on the table at the front for people to see. We also put out posters that the publisher sends with them. We’re a little like a grocery store. We have to let people know what we have.”
“Good idea,” he said. “I never looked at it like that, but I think you’re right.”
“I did have one other thing that happened. Freddie Meyers came in to see me.”
Right away the hackles on the back of Bishop’s neck jumped up, if he had any hackles. He was wary however.
“What did he want?” he asked, deliberately softening his voice so he wouldn’t sound as jealous as he figured he was.
Bishop knew Meyers. He was a local attorney in his forties, and well known both as an attorney and a lady’s man. He was tall with dark hair and eyes, and movie star handsome. He’d been married twice already and, according to the scuttlebutt, never turned down an opportunity to explore something new. His wives never liked that, but he was between wives just then.
Bishop had never had a case against Meyers because he didn’t represent borrowers as far as Bishop knew. Mostly he handled personal injury cases and did well. He had a knack for bonding with a jury and they more often than not brought in a verdict for his client.
One thing Bishop didn’t like was the Interstate billboard he used to advertise his practice. “Need a lawyer for anything, Freddie is Ready. Give him a ring.”
I liked it better when lawyers couldn’t advertise, Bishop thought.
Kathy said, “Apparently he’d seen us play, and asked if I’d partner with him in the Club mixed doubles tournament coming up.”
She explained that the tournament rules required that one member of the doubles had to belong to the Club. She wasn’t but Meyers was. That was why Bishop hadn’t heard about the tournament. He wasn’t a member. When he and Kathy played it was usually with Seth and his daughter, Sonja. Both were members. On the occasions when Bishop wanted to play on the courts, Seth’s secretary made reservations for them in Seth’s name.
“Somebody told me he’s pretty goo
d,” she said. “Last year, he and his partner lost in the semifinals.”
“Well, with you as his partner, I expect he’ll do better,” Bishop said. “I imagine you’ll be top seeded.”
Kathy was a good, steady player. Excellent at the net and rarely double faulted when she served. And Meyers, Bishop had read in the local newspaper, played number one singles and doubles in SEC tournaments when he was at Ole Miss.
“I told him I’d talk it over with you. He knows we’re … engaged I guess technically that is what we are,” she said.
“That’s right,” Bishop said. “Unless you think we should change it.”
“I’m happy the way we are,” she replied.
“So, what do you want to do? Nobody wants me to partner with them but I could watch you and ole Freddie kick some butts.”
“Would it bother you … me playing tennis with somebody else … especially Freddie?” Everyone knew his reputation.
Bishop decided not to argue about it or protest. Worst case, she’d like the guy and that would be the end of their relationship. But that could happen with anybody, even to him, though it hadn’t happened so far and he doubted it ever would as far as he was concerned.
“No,” he replied. If you come in and tell me he wants to marry you, I’ll point out his history and if you want to marry the bum, I’ll have to kiss you goodbye. No other choice, he thought. Son of a bitch! And if I tell her about his history now, I’ll look like a jealous, insecure jerk.
He looked at her with a smile and said, “I’m not worried. Either we love each other or we don’t. If we do, playing tennis with somebody like Freddie Meyers won’t hurt us. But, if it does, we’ll take that up then.”
She hesitantly said, “Okay, I’ll tell him. I know you, Bishop. You don’t like it, do you?”
He laughed. “Well, would you?”
“That’s why I said what I just said. Of course I wouldn’t and I’d most likely tell you up front.”
Death of the Weed Merchant Page 2