Читать книгу Deadly Game - R. B. Conroy - Страница 9

Chapter 3

“Pardon me Mr. Crane; Mr. Winslow is here to see you.”

“Okay Erica, send him in. And could you bring us both a cup of coffee? Strom likes his black.”

“I’ll be right back with the coffee sir.”

Born and raised on a dairy farm in North Central Indiana, Alex Crane’s father was a stern, but loving, taskmaster. He had taught Alex the value of hard work at a very young age. His mother was out-going and friendly and taught Alex the value of relationships and getting along with others. Strong and fleet of foot, Alex was also one of the best athletes to ever come out of North Central Indiana. He earned all-state honors in both basketball and football at Oak Hill High School. After graduating from high school, he went on to be a star athlete at Butler University in Indianapolis, majoring in finance and graduating with honors. After a stint in the Navy, he found a job as a loan officer at a tiny bank in Sweetser, Indiana. Using his father’s work ethic and his mother’s charm, he moved from Sweetser to a larger bank in Marion, Indiana and then eventually climbed the ladder to become the President of Midwest Consoli-dated Bank, one of the largest banking conglomerates in the country. Smart and aggressive, the former star athlete developed into a tough and determined in-fighter in the rough and tumble world of twenty-first century banking.

There was a quick knock, the office door swung open. “Come in Strom, have a seat.” Alex waved at the empty leather chairs fronting his large oak desk.

“Thanks Alex. Got any coffee ‘round this place?”

“Erica will be right in.” Alex nervously shuffled some papers on his desk as the large man lumbered over and collapsed into the chair like a big bag of potatoes.

“Damn, if I gain any more weight you’re gonna have to put some bigger chairs in here.”

Alex chuckled, “You could always stand up.”

Strom managed a guttural laugh.

The always efficient Erica hurried in and set a cup of coffee in front of Strom and on Alex’s coaster, which featured a still somewhat discernible picture of Tony Hinkle, the legendary Butler basketball coach.

“What did you think of the meeting?” Alex asked.

“There was plenty of blood spilled in there today—I’ve never seen Barnes so determined. I thought you were very forceful and persuasive in your arguments, but I still think it‘s a toss-up.”

“Do you think it would do any good for you to talk to any of the board members again privately, maybe Cliff and Lisa? With you and me and those two, we could swing this thing our way.”

Strom’s brows narrowed, he leaned forward and looked directly at Alex. “I feel confident about Cliff and I’m hoping Lisa is in our camp also. She’s a little harder to read, but I’m optimistic. The others are all hopeless; they’re caving into the pressure from Barnes and our stockholders.” Strom shook his head.

Alex fidgeted with his watch, something he always did when he was anxious. He stood and began pacing back and forth behind his desk.

“They’re not caving because of pressure from Barnes. Those selfish old fools are just looking out for themselves. They know that keeping the money could be bad for us in the long run, but they also know it might help prop up our stock in the short run. Then they can sell out to the first merger offer that comes along, take their millions and play golf every day at Crooked Stick.”

“I think you’re right, Alex, I just didn’t want to say it. But they’re not bad men—remember they’re all in their late sixties or seventies and they’re seeing their invest-ments erode away because of this subprime fiasco. They want to try and salvage what they can and go on with their lives. What the hell Alex, they don’t have ten or twenty years to wait for things to turn around.”

Alex dropped into his chair, rubbed his face with both hands and glanced over at his faithful cohort. “You’re right, Strom. I could fight this until I’m blue in the face but its not going to make a bit of difference. In the end, just like in almost every other business dealing I’ve had in my thirty years in banking, it all boils down to money. They’re worried about their money.”

“I agree, except for Barnes and I think it’s political with him. He wants that Ambassadorship to Ireland in the worst way. He needs this bank to look as good as possible for the midterm elections and the Presidential, which is just a little more than two years from now. If Midwest has problems, it will reflect poorly on Barnes. He doesn’t want that.

“You’re right—he mentions that ambassadorship frequently. But no matter, Lisa is the key and she can be hard to figure. Let me think about this. The board says they want an answer by the twenty-third. That’s more than a week from now so we have a little time.”

Strom propped his elbows on the desk, his eyes clouded over; he reached over and gently squeezed Alex’s forearm. “This decision you’re making could have dire ramifications. Everything we’ve been doing for the past twenty years has suddenly been turned upside down. You have great courage, Alex; sometimes I wish you didn’t have so much. If you don’t soften your stance, I’m afraid this thing could take you and Nicky away from us. If that happened, I would be heart-broken.”

Alex patted Strom’s huge hand, “Thanks Strom, you’re a good and loyal friend, but Barnes railroaded me once on this money situation. He’s not going to do it again. And, I’m not going anywhere—at least not for awhile.”

“Keep your head down and your left arm straight out there today,” Strom ordered.

“Will do,” Alex replied.

Strom struggled to lift his big torso from the deep chair and hurriedly left the office. Alex stood and watched as the door fell shut. He quickly cleared his desk and snapped the speaker phone back on. “Clear my schedule Erica, I’m out for the afternoon.”

“I know Alex, it’s Wednesday. Your schedule is already clear.”

“Thanks Erica, you’re the best. And by the way, what’s the high for today?”

“The paper said 90 this morning.”

“Hmmm….another hot August day. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

Alex slipped into his private restroom, changed into his golfing clothes and quickly ducked out the side entrance of his office.

………

Alex’s pulse quickened as he struggled up the hill toward the first tee at Crooked Stick, an exclusive country club in Carmel, Indiana, a near north suburb of Indianapolis. He looked forward, with great anticipation, to his weekly game of golf. Nearing the tee, he knew that he was in for some serious ribbing from his golfing buddies for showing up late. The three of them were already pacing on the tee and taking occasional short, quick practice swings as they awaited his arrival. Jake, owner of a local computer store, was the first to see Alex approaching the tee.

“Evening, Alex,” Jake joked, leaning down to tee up his ball.

“Good afternoon everyone. Sorry I’m late.”

“Late? Hell, we’re all tickled pink,” Dr. Will Everett barked. “This is the first time we’ve teed off before 1:15 this month.”

Alex grinned and shook his head, “That’s BS Doc, and you know it.”

“Okay fellas, take it easy on him. He probably had to run an errand for Nicky or something,” attorney Joe shouted.

The other players howled in delight. This was the ultimate insult among golfers—to insinuate that an order from one’s wife was the reason for being late.

“You’re all hopeless,” Alex shot back. “But at least your money’s good, so let’s hit it.”

“Throw your bag on my cart, we’re riding together,” Jake ordered.

Alex dropped his bag on the back of his old friend’s cart, tightened the strap, and carefully lifted his prize Taylor-made driver from the bag. He yanked off the head cover and tossed it in the little metal basket behind the seat.

“Twenty a hole and double for birds,” Doc announced. The wager had been the same for years, but someone always had to announce it just to be sure they were all on the same page. And, as usual, all of the men nodded in the affirmative.

“Good,” Doc replied, “Joe and I will play you two sandbaggers.”

“Like taking candy from a baby,” Alex joked as he and Jake enjoyed a high-five.

“Couldn’t have said it better, pard,” Jake laughed.

Doc leaned over and ripped some grass from the ground and gently tossed it in the air. “The wind’s right at us and it’s a two hundred yard carry over deep rough to that damned fairway,” he complained.

“You’re the one who always wants to play Crooked Stick, Doc, there are other courses around here, ya know,” Jake barked.

Doc addressed the ball and prepared to hit his drive. The group suddenly fell quiet as he slowly lifted his club and swung hard at the ball. There was a sharp metallic clicking sound as his driver blasted into the ball.

“Great drive, Doc!” Joe shouted. “Looks like another big day for the good guys.”

The other men hit their drives with all of them successfully reaching the distant fairway. They jumped aboard their carts and sped down the asphalt pathway toward their next shot.

“Tough day at the office?” Jake asked. Golf tees and loose change bounced in the cart’s console as they drove along the bumpy path.

“Yeah, seems like they’re all tough lately. The board doesn’t want me to pay back the bailout money and I’m determined to do it.”

Jake shook his head. “The Government is throwing money around like it grows on trees. That stimulus bill is huge. It’s kind of scary, but I’ll take it, I guess.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, we’ve been chosen to help install broadband throughout Marion County. It’s a huge project and should make us well for the year. It’s not really needed. We’re replacing an existing system, but what the hay? If they got an extra hundred mil to throw around, we’ll take it.”

“Nice deal. You install the unneeded broadband and take your money and run. It’s different with the TARP money, it’s more long term. They get inside your organization and soon they’re running every facet of your business. It’s not long before they’re telling you when you can go to the bathroom.” The brakes squeaked as the cart jerked to a stop.

“You’re up, short knocker,” Jake joked.

“What are we Jake? About 130?”

Jake leaned over the side of the cart and looked down. “This sprinkler head right here says 136. Looks like a wedge.”

Suddenly, Joe Patterson shouted from across the fairway at the two men. “I was there yesterday Alex, it’s about 165. Hit a seven!”

“Thanks Joe,” he shouted back at his opponent. Alex watched as Joe and Doc, their shoulders shaking in laughter, continued toward their balls.

“Seven my foot,” Alex said quietly. He reached into his bag and lifted out his pitching wedge. “If I hit a seven iron from here, I’ll fly the green by thirty yards.”

“Those ass-holes will do anything for twenty bucks,” Jake laughed.

Alex made a couple of practice swings, took his final stance, held still over the ball, lifted the club up slowly and took a nice steady swing. A large divot flew into the air as the ball smacked off the clubface and shot toward the green, bouncing twice and then rolling down an incline to within ten feet of the hole.

“Great shot, partner!” Jake exclaimed.

He and Alex chuckled, they turned and watched Joe and Doc both hit their shots into a greenside bunker. The two shook their heads as they angrily slammed their clubs in their bags and jumped back in the cart.

Suddenly, the smile disappeared from Alex’s face. “I worry about my grandkids Jake. With all this massive spending taking place in Washington, we’re going to leave them with a bankrupt country that’s supported by a bankrupt Government.”

“Yeah, I know Alex. I worry about my grandkids a lot too.”

They arrived at Jake’s ball. “You‘re up, long knocker.”

Jake hopped out of the cart, yanked his gap wedge from the bag. He took a couple quick swings and knocked the ball up on the green about twenty feet above the hole.

Jake paused and looked at Alex, “I’m glad you’re making a stand at the bank Alex. We need more people to do that.”

“Thanks Jake, but I’ve got a big problem.”

“What’s that?”

“We just had our monthly board meeting and they seem to be leaning toward keeping the bailout.”

“Hmmm….that’s not good,” Jake lamented as he hopped in the cart. “Better update your resume.”

Alex shook his head as he accelerated up a steep hill toward the green. Jake was a seasoned business man, and very savvy in the ways of the business world. He knew that if Alex didn’t keep the money and the bank struggled, he would be the one the bank blamed. With the economy so weak, and with the passage of the massive health care legislation, there would be further strains on the business community. It could be years before the economy returned anywhere close to prior levels. Alex would be in a very precarious situation.

Alex yanked his putter from the bag and watched his opponents blast from the bunker—both shots landing well short of the pin.

“Was that bet forty a hole?” Jake shouted.

“We said twenty,” Joe retorted.

Doc two putted for a bogey but the feisty Joe canned a thirty footer for a par.

“We need this one, Jake,” Alex reminded.

Jake walked around the green gazing at his twenty-footer from every possible angle. The others waited patiently, leaning on their putters, observing the familiar dance. After what seemed an eternity, Jake approached his ball and made two excruciatingly slow practice swings and then finally addressed the ball. After another lengthy pause, with his head shooting back and forth from hole to ball innumerable times, he finally stroked the ball; it slid by and came to a halt some six inches past the hole. He strolled forward and made his tap in for a par.

“Damn!” Jake extorted as he bent over to remove his ball from the hole. “It’s up to you, Alex. Knock it in.”

“Looks like a double-breaker to me,” Doc chided Alex as he quickly lined up his ten-footer.

As Alex lined up the putt, he thought of the changing situation at the bank and the heartfelt pleas from Nicky to cash it all in and move to their beloved lake home. It made him realize just how fleeting life’s circumstances could be. Moving was a million miles from his mind just a few weeks ago. Alex took a deep breath and softly stroked the ball down the hill toward the hole and then threw his arms in the air in disgust.

“Thought you had it,” Joe mused as he watched the ball dip down in the hole and then pop out. “Too bad, bucko.”

Although disappointed by the near miss, Alex smiled warmly at his golfing comrades. He paused by his bag and looked carefully at each of them, something he almost never did. They were a motley crew. Doc looked rather distinguished with his small round glasses pushed to the end of his long, aquiline nose. He whistled quietly as he meticulously slid the cover over his shiny putter.

The pudgy Joe, his arms covered with thick black hair and the obligatory cigar sticking out from between his slightly stained teeth, grunted an insult at his opponents as he jammed the pin in the hole.

Finally, he glimpsed at his fast approaching friend, Jake. Tall and nattily dressed, his bright white Ben Hogan hat accentuated his forest green outfit. Jake glanced toward his friend and smiled warmly.

A feeling of melancholy swept over Alex, he knew that he would see these old friends only occasionally if he and Nicky moved to the lake. Their relationships meant a lot to him. He knew that no matter what his score would be this day, that it would be a good day with his friends. “Nice putt, my friend,” he said to Joe.

“Well…uh thanks Alex,” a surprised Joe replied. “Back at ya, I thought yours was in too.” Alex felt two affectionate pats to his shoulder from the usually combative Joe.

“All square!” Doc chanted. The carts groaned up the steep hill toward the second tee.

“Not for long!” Jake challenged.