Читать книгу Hidden Agendas - Paul Boardman - Страница 7

The telephone on the desk in Bernie Wheeler’s lavish office rang softly. He was proud of the space he occupied on the fiftieth floor of the magnificent tower complex in downtown Phoenix. Bernie folded shut the appraisal he had been studying when the phone rang and touched the button to connect him to his receptionist. He listened while the receptionist announced his visitor, the architect for a cinema complex on the outskirts of the city.

“Send him in.”

Moments later the architect appeared at the door. Bernie Wheeler rose professionally and walked around his mahogany and marble desk to meet the man in the center of the room. They shook hands and sat down on a soft leather couch behind an oversized coffee table. The architect, casually dressed in designer clothes, rolled out a set of plans including a selection of artist’s concepts for the project.

“Impressive,” said Bernie as he spread the artist’s concepts around the table. “Very nice indeed!”

“This is just a rough draft of our proposal. Phase One is the cinema itself. That will be the drawing card. We’ll have fifteen to twenty theaters. This sketch shows the main entrance to the building. This other one shows a separate, luxurious entrance to a banquet hall, specifically designed for premiere viewings. This hall will be connected to one of the theaters through a private tunnel. The entrance will be designed to allow celebrities to drive up to the door, step out under a fabulous portico and walk through a loving crowd of spectators and paparazzi. Once inside the banquet hall they can enjoy cocktails and hors d’oeuvres prior to entering the theater through the tunnel thus never having to mix with the usual movie crowd. The cost of this extravagance, by that I mean the opulence, of that part of the building will be offset by the free publicity for the project each time a gala premiere occurs and movie stars drive up under the portico.

This phase will use only twenty-five percent of the land. Surrounding the theater will be a dozen restaurants. That’s Phase Two. Some of the tenants will require their own, insignia architecture. Naturally we’ll scrutinize that carefully and incorporate it into a total design concept.”

“Have you talked to marketing to see what the level of interest is for the restaurant tenants.”

“We already have six tenants ready to sign.”

“Well then, let’s do it!” stated Bernie enthusiastically. “You know my rules. Bring it in on budget.”

“We understand your rules extremely well,” said the architect.

“Good. Here’s a little incentive to keep the numbers down,” Bernie stated as he reached for a briefcase beside the coffee table. “Here is one hundred thousand in cash. That should soften up your invoices a bit.”

The architect accepted the case, rolled up his plans and left, smiling happily.

Bernie Wheeler was also smiling. He loved the development business. Properly handled it was truly a goldmine. All you had to do was bring projects in on budget. Do that, and the next deal was guaranteed before it was even proposed.

Bernie was the Wizard! The Guru. He understood how business worked! He had risen to the top by making sure his books always balanced. That was the key to his success. In addition, his paper trail was immaculate. All it took was ten percent in cash and he could make any reasonable development plan work.

As he let his mind drift, Bernie mused over his charmed life. He looked around him, admiring all of the fine things that his money was able to buy. Then looking out the window, across the manicured sprawl of Phoenix, toward the Arizona Desert, he relived the excitement of how it all began, back in Florida.

He remembered sitting in his tiny, cramped office, in the night club style bar he had just acquired. It was twenty years ago, his first evening in his new establishment, half an hour after the bar had closed.

His manager came into his office and deposited, on his desk, a pair of canvas sacks containing the night’s receipts. His plan had been to reconcile the books throughout the night and catch up on his sleep the next morning. He knew it would take him several hours but he was, after all, an accountant and actually looked forward to the challenge. It excited him that instead of just balancing numbers on a spreadsheet, as he usually did, he was actually balancing numbers with real cash. The unfortunate circumstances that put him in this position were temporarily forgotten as he rolled up his sleeves and opened the first canvas bag. The bills were neatly stacked and bound with elastic bands, a Post-it note indicating the total was attached to each denomination. On top was a roll of paper from the cash register. Ignoring the actual money, Bernie began to read the results on the roll of paper. The numbers looked good, roughly what he had imagined they would be. The business appeared profitable. He assumed it was solid because it had never been delinquent and the mortgage had always been paid on time.

A week ago Bernie Wheeler had held the mortgage on both the building and the business. Then, a violent break-in occurred shortly after closing. A pair of hoodlums had forced their way into the office and robbed the owner while he performed the same tasks that Bernie was now doing. The owner must have tried to resist … no one knew for sure … but when his body was found the following morning, the money was gone and there were three bullet holes in the owner’s chest.

The victim had died intestate and Bernie had been given the legal right to continue business operations as a trustee, until the legal matters were settled. The thought of that gruesome happening caused him to get up and check the entrances and exits, confirming that he was safely locked inside, with the alarms set. Then he resumed his work, making entries in his computer and scrutinizing the results. When he completed his task he reached into the bag and began to count the money, double checking the tally his staff had already made.

It balanced perfectly, after allowing for sixty-two dollars and forty-six cents in the over and short column. For a moment Bernie felt relieved. It had been a rewarding evening and his task was done. Then, almost inadvertently, he had looked at the second canvas sack. What was it, anyway? He had assumed it was just part of the cash. But the books were already balanced. He opened it up. There was no loose coin. In fact the smallest denomination of currency it contained was ten dollar bills. The sack yielded fifteen hundred and seventy dollars. Inside was an envelope containing a brief note which read:

Total	$1570
Cost	950
Profit	620	Congratulations!	E.F.

Bernie Wheeler continued to work, alone in the office, until well after dawn. Then, during the early stages of the morning rush hour, he left the bar, drove to the bank and deposited the first canvas sack at the twenty-four hour drive-through. He then drove home, exhausted, leaving the second bag at the club, in the floor safe.

At ten o’clock the next evening, he sat at the end of the bar keeping an eye on things, trying not to interfere with an experienced and knowledgeable staff. A well dressed, tall, thin, perhaps a bit slick looking Colombian, quietly sat down beside him.

“Last night was a good night for a Thursday. The weekend will be better. You’ll see. I’ll help you get started. You will be on your own, soon. By the way, you owe me nine hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I have your money in the back room. All of it! Fifteen-seventy. I don’t know what you expect but I’m the wrong guy. Understand?” snapped Bernie angrily.

“This bar is just breaking even. You need me to show a profit. It’s simple. You’ll see.”

The slick looking Colombian finished his drink and left. For the next week, each night, the process of receiving two sacks of money was repeated. Bernie didn’t see the Colombian again. The notes in the sack indicated that Bernie owed him seventy-seven hundred dollars and had earned over four thousand for himself.

The Colombian had been right about the bar as well. During the week of managing the place, Bernie performed a mini audit and annualized his overhead. After cost of sales, miscellaneous expenses such as electricity, gas, taxes and insurance ate up almost all of the gross profit. The bar was not doing as well as he thought it had the first night.

The following Monday, Eduardo Fernandez returned to the bar and once again spoke to Bernie. This time Bernie was more conciliatory and when the Colombian left, he left with seventy-seven hundred dollars.

During the three months that followed, Bernie advised his previous employer that he would not be returning to his regular job following the two month leave of absence he had been granted. He obtained a court order and purchased the land and business from the estate. He knew the move was rash but he justified it to himself by saying it was the only way he could protect his initial mortgage investment.

During that period he met with Eduardo Fernandez several times and had come to appreciate the Colombian’s intelligence and decisiveness. Although he enjoyed accumulating the cash, he was afraid to spend it. His personality was not well suited to trafficking in cocaine. In fact, he lived in constant fear. Fear of losing his freedom, his livelihood and most of all, his reputation as a straight-shooting accountant. He could barely fathom the shame he would endure, if he were ever caught.

Eduardo astutely observed Bernie’s reticence. After a few months, he invited Bernie to lunch in a place exclusive enough to make a good impression. He had a proposal.

Fernandez had a buyer who would purchase the club for a million dollars which was slightly more than market value. But his offer was more complex. He offered to pay the one million dollars into an off-shore account in the Cayman Islands, tax free. Bernie baulked, knowing full well that the IRS would be after him in about twenty minutes after the deal closed. But Eduardo continued. He would lend Bernie another million which would be secured by a promissory note. That money would be deposited into a new holding company and used to purchase a strip mall with an adjacent, undeveloped lot. Bernie would obtain conventional financing for the balance of the purchase price. He would assign all of his shares in the new company to Fernandez and further grant Fernandez a long term option to purchase the property, as collateral for the loan. The loan and collateral agreement would be kept secret and neither would be registered. Nor would the assignation of the shares. Bernie would operate the mall as if it were his own and be allowed to draw a salary starting at what he was currently drawing from the bar. On paper, the salary would be provided by the rental income from the mall. His off-shore account would return interest, unencumbered. If he managed the strip mall well, his success would be rewarded in the form of cash and bonuses.

Bernie weighed these options. He recognized the plan for exactly what it was, a money laundering operation. But with his accounting background, it seemed far safer than operating a night club with a cocaine business in the parking lot. A few days later Fernandez returned. There was one condition he had forgotten to mention. Under no circumstances would Bernie ever traffic in cocaine again. If he did, Fernandez would call the note and seize the property. Bernie’s fears evaporated. His greatest fear had been that he would be forced to sell dope out of the mall and now he was being told that action was strictly forbidden. He quickly agreed to the arrangement.

A few months after the move to his new office on the second story of the mall, Fernandez instructed Bernie to begin planning an expansion into the adjacent lot. He advised him on how to keep his cost-on-the-books, down, by using a cash supplement that Fernandez would provide. Within six months the addition was completed, on budget, and the entire project was fully leased and financed for roughly the total outlay of both the acquisition and the new construction. Fernandez told Bernie to find another property. Inside three years Bernie’s holding company owned seventeen properties. With each acquisition Bernie’s off-shore account grew and his taxable salary was augmented with taxable bonuses that he ostensibly paid to himself.

Bernie always brought his projects in on budget. That was his specialty. It wasn’t hard. His formula was steadfast. With ten percent in cash, Bernie could bring any project in on budget. His bankers marveled at the loyalty of Bernie’s architects, engineers, lawyers and contractors. His projects were never plagued with disputes and legal wrangling they had seen with other developers.

As time went on, Bernie’s reputation grew and he was soon to be lauded as a Guru of Real Estate. It never bothered him that with each acquisition he signed new promissory notes. He knew the notes would never be called, unless he quit or died. Certainly he had no intention of doing either in the foreseeable future. Eduardo gave him only one mandate. Expand. And expansion was so easy. All he had to do was bring his projects in on budget and his bank was falling over backward to finance the next deal.

Then one day, Fernandez had instructed Bernie to position the company with ten percent of its assets in stock. He wanted something that would offset a slump in the real estate market. Bernie agreed, well aware of what a slump in the real estate market could do to a real estate development and holding company. Fernandez asked for a suggestion regarding a stock pick. Bernie asked for some time to research the market. After a week of research, Bernie, over lunch in a downtown hotel, suggested Intracell Communications. The cell phone craze was just beginning. Fernandez was surprised at the choice of stock but after a half hour of convincing discussion, he agreed to Bernie’s selection.

Intracell prospered. Their financial statements were public documents and Bernie reviewed them quarterly and kept a close eye on their stock price but other than that, wasted little time on what he considered a simple side-show to his real estate business. When the NASDAQ market crashed in April, 2000, Fernandez, who had slipped out of sight over the years, made a rare appearance. He wanted Bernie to substantially increase his investment in Intracell, while the stock price floundered.

And now Bernie Wheeler stood before the mirror. A real estate magnate with an impeccable reputation, who had just been offered a position on the Board of Directors of Intracell Communications, the nation’s leading cell phone provider.

It didn’t matter one whit that Bernie Wheeler didn’t own a single share of his company. At least not a single share that wasn’t tied up as collateral security for an astounding series of promissory notes. He owned his four million dollar home, paid for after tax. He owned vacation property paid for the same way. He had a multi-million dollar account in the Cayman Islands that he never touched. He was driven to work in a limo. He had been interviewed by Forbes Magazine. And now he was invited to join the Board of a major American Corporation. He smiled to himself in the mirror. Who cares if he didn’t own his company? Nobody knew. Not even his wife.