Cash Burn (6 page)

Sure Flip was going to lie. Tom had been at this long enough to know that. But there were other potential victims out here, and maybe if Flip knew he was suspected, he’d lie low. Maybe it would keep some other teenager alive. It was worth a try. If Danton wasn’t willing to do it, Tom would do it himself.

Tom’s nostrils tingled with the dust floating in the air in the hallway. A radio played a tinny version of Tom Petty singing about refugees. Behind another door the senseless music and audience uproar of a game show blared. Finally he came to number 312. He waited for a moment, listening. No voices, no movement inside. The game show noise from down the hall reached a crescendo and was abruptly cut off by a commercial jingle.

He knocked.

The door opened and the man stood before him. Flip turned his back and marched away to collapse onto the sofa. Dust from the impact puffed into a column of light cast into the room from the window.

Flip squinted. “Close those blinds, will you?”

Tom hesitated. But Flip looked more like a hospital patient than a convict at the moment.

He entered the room and left the door open. The smell of Flip and soiled surfaces and dirty dishes rose up to meet him. The stench was sour, like something a caged animal might emit. He went to the window and tried to open it for fresh air, but it was painted shut.

“You need to talk to your landlord about these windows.”

Flip’s eyes were slits against the sunlight. “Just drop the blinds.” He brought a hand up and turned his head and let his hand fall back to the sofa cushion next to him.

Tom didn’t close the blinds. The sunlight warmed his back. The holster resting at his kidney grew warm too.

“You just going to stand there staring at me?”

“I guess you really are sick. Have you been to see a doctor?”

“No.”

“So what’s the matter with you?”

“Close those blinds!” Flip’s hair was mashed flat into his head on the left, and the sofa had left an imprint on that side of his face, where it was meshed and red like something grilled. Under his eyes, shaded circles drooped, the color of old bruises.

Flip’s mouth snarled upward. He rose from the sofa and came at Tom with an arm raised. Tom fought the reflex to reach for his weapon and stepped aside. Flip grabbed the string controlling the blinds and swung it to one side. The blinds cascaded down to angle the light away from the floor.

Flip returned to the sofa. “What do you want, anyway? I didn’t miss a meeting.”

“Just wanted to say get well soon.”

Flip snorted. “Okay, now you believe I’m sick and I didn’t skip town. You can go.” He lay inclined on the sofa with one leg extended to his side, one foot on the floor. His jeans were once black but already showed gray patches on the thighs and knees. He hadn’t been out that long; he must have been wearing them every day.

“Manny’s not going to hold that job open for you forever. You better take some vitamins, Convict.”

That brought a squinting eye open. He held the one eye wide, Popeye style, for a minute, then let it drift closed again. “I can find another job.”

“You’re out of work; that’s a violation.”

“What do you want me to do?” He started cursing and Tom let him.

“You need another copy of the conditions of your parole?”

“You think I want to be sick? I’ll go back as soon as I can.”

Tom moved away from the window and behind the sofa, toward the kitchen entrance. The dishes piled in the sink rose well above counter level now. A couple of flies pirouetted in the space above the putrid stack.

Broken glass littered the floor in the corner. A brown stain decorated the wall. It looked like a jellyfish, tentacles sagging downward.

“You need a new maid.”

“Why don’t you get out of here?” Flip’s voice, pointed in the other direction, seemed disembodied. Tom turned and looked at the back of Flip’s round, black-stubbled head propped to one side against his fist.

He wandered into the bedroom. The blinds in here were drawn to block out the sunlight. Sheets now covered the bed, or nearly covered it. On one corner the sheet was peeled back to reveal the gray stripes of the mattress. Imagining Flip making a bed brought a grin to Tom’s face.

From the other room, Flip called out, “You almost done with your search, Officer?”

He returned to the living room. “I appreciate the hospitality.”

“Like I got a choice.” Flip still rested his head against the fist of his right hand. The bicep of his bent arm was the size of a cantaloupe. Tom felt the reassurance of the holster nestled in his back.

“What’ve you been doing when you aren’t working or lying around here being sick?”

“I told you last week. Nothing. No bars. Not associating with any felons.”

“A model citizen.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He scratched his eyelid. “A freakin’ model citizen. Why don’t you get out and leave me alone?”

“You’re going to hurt my feelings, you don’t cut that out.”

Flip shook his head. He reached for the television remote.

“Leave the TV off, Convict.”

His head rose, and a shadow passed over his eyes for an instant, then cleared. “Sure. No problem, Officer.”

“What’d you do last Tuesday night? Just stay in, glued to the TV?”

“Tuesday night . . . ? Let’s see . . .”

Come on, deny it.

“Oh yeah. Tuesday night I went out to Santa Monica. Went for a walk on the beach.”

“You do a lot of walking on the beach at night?”

“It’s kind of my new thing. You know, go out there and contemplate stuff.”

“Meditate.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Meditate.” Flip’s eyes lightened. He was perking right up.

“How’d you get out there?”

“Took the bus, of course.”

“Why didn’t you take the Metro?”

“Don’t like being underground.”

“You’ll be underground soon enough. What number bus you take?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What number?”

“I don’t remember. Down by Fairfax I had to change lines.”

“You stop anyplace? See anybody?”

“I saw about a thousand people. It’s a big city, Officer Cole.”

Enough of this. It was pointless to sweat him, but they had no evidence at all. “Why’d you kill the kid, Flip?”

It took under a second for Flip to paste confusion onto his face. The hesitation was just long enough. “What kid? What are you talking about?”

“Did he do something to deserve it? Or were you just trying to stay sharp?”

“I got no concept what you’re talking about.”

Tom eyed him.

A smile creased Flip’s face. “I am a model citizen, Officer. I don’t go to bars. Don’t associate with known felons. I go to the beach some nights. Meditate.”

Tom stepped to him. He brought his face down to his.

“You going to kiss me, Officer?”

“I know you did the kid. I know it.” He held up three fingers. “That’s strike three.”

“Get out of my face. You got nothing.” Breath like seeping garbage floated up to Tom’s nostrils. Flip’s eyes were empty holes. The emotion was flushed out of them. Shark eyes.

Tom stood away. “You’re going back in, Flip.”

“No.”

“You’re going back in. I’m going to see to it. Strike three and you’re out.”

“You got nothing. This is getting on toward harassment.”

“The parole board’ll be real interested in your side of things.”

Flip rose to face him. He said nothing. The expression on his face told Tom everything he needed to know. He measured the time it would take him to get to the Glock if he needed it.

Flip said, “You done threatening me? You done harassing me? You done?”

Tom stepped closer. Before turning to leave, he wanted to look longer in the flat pans of those eyes. Dead eyes. Hellish eyes. “Don’t get too comfortable outside, Convict.”

11

Posture prim as a schoolmarm’s, Brenda wore a chiffon blouse buttoned all the way to her neck. That creamy column rose to cradle her pristine jaw. Her cheekbones swelled underneath those green eyes, domed by delicate eyebrows. Her lashes were full and black, and her lids were penciled in black too. Jason had seen Serena pencil around her eyes, and for an instant he imagined Brenda standing before the mirror in the morning applying her makeup.

He patted her personnel file. “I talked to Margaret. She had nothing but good things to say. It took a little wrangling, but we got the transfer policy waived. You can start up here whenever you get her projects done. You’re working on the benefits package, right?”

Brenda nodded, blonde hair bouncing against her smooth forehead. “It’s for open enrollment this fall. I can have that done today. There’s not much left.”

“There’ll be a probation period. This is an important position—”

Her brow furrowed for an instant, then smoothed again. “I won’t disappoint you, Jason.” The natural pout of her lips curved upward, and the perfect row of her teeth appeared, wet and shining in the light from the window behind him. A dimple flashed in the pale pink rose petal of her right cheek.

“Oh. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” Billy’s voice snapped Jason’s eyes away. The kid held files grasped by the corners to keep their contents from falling to the carpet.

Brenda’s green eyes didn’t move off Jason.

Jason felt his face flush hot. “Give us two minutes. We’re about done.”

Billy stared at his face, must have seen that blushing. “Sure. I’ll just wait outside.”

Jason nodded, and the kid turned away, shifting the files. He went around the corner.

Brenda’s green eyes held him fast, an expression of utter absorption. “I’ll finish up that project right away. If Margaret cuts me loose, I’ll be up here this afternoon or tomorrow morning at the latest. You won’t regret this, Jason.”

“Okay.” He stood, and she came up out of the chair, the smile dimpling her cheek again, teeth flashing. She reached a hand out, grasped his, held it. He shook it once and released, and she held his loose hand an instant before letting it go and turning her back, her calves buckling the underside of her skirt with each step as she left the room.

Billy entered. He took her seat and said he needed to go over three deals with him. One was a customer and two were prospects.

Focus was difficult. Jason stared at the numbers, but their meaning was lost. He rubbed his eyes and tried again. He ran a fingertip across the ratios and asset-turnover calculations.
A trend. Look for a trend.
“This loan’ll be okay. Sales are down, but the collateral’s worth more than the loan even in hard times.” He flipped to the owner’s personal financial statement. “These liquid assets look good. Just get current market values.”

The two prospects were less certain. Jason turned one down, and for the other he tightened up Billy’s suggestions for terms before sliding the pages across to him.

Billy looked at Jason’s scribbling on the terms. “I don’t know if I can win it with this structure.”

Jason reconsidered. An eight-million-dollar deal, fully funded on day one. Big enough to move his division’s numbers, and if a couple of the deals in Patricia and Don’s pipelines closed in the next sixty days, he’d be a lock for kicking Vince off the top of the heap.

And if this loan went sideways, it wouldn’t happen for at least six months.

He took the pages back, crossed out his notes, and increased the size of the loan by two million.

Billy leaned forward in his chair to peek at the changes. “Whoa. I didn’t know I was that persuasive. You think Scotty will go for it?”

“You take the fun out of everything.”

Billy sank back in his chair. “I thought I was pushing the envelope as it was. Another couple million will compress those ratios pretty tight. They’ll have to grow a bit to pay it back.”

Jason flipped to the spreadsheets and looked at the ratios. At ten million there wouldn’t be much room for error. In fact, there would be no room for error at all. Especially in this economy.

Billy gathered the files. “Want to go talk with Scotty about it now? He’s in his office.”

Jason reached for his mouse and clicked into his calendar. He knew it was clear. “Let me take care of a couple of things.” He toggled back to the e-mail he’d been composing, hiding the calendar. “I’ll go over it with him in a little bit.”

“You don’t want me to pitch it to him?”

“No, you’ve got plenty of other things going on. I’ll run this one past him. You’ll get your chance to pitch it when it goes to committee.” He put his fingertips to his keyboard and began typing.

Billy waited for a moment. “I promised we’d have something to them tomorrow.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll let you know.”

Alone in his office, Jason stared into his computer monitor. The words of his e-mail glowed back at him beneath the reflected shine from his window.

Scotty would never go for it. It was too much money for this borrower. Too thin on cash-flow coverage and collateral. But it would move Jason’s numbers. And it was a company with a respected name. He’d tried for their business himself half a dozen times before Billy got in. It would be a flagship account he could tout in the market—by itself it might slam the door on Vince.

He wouldn’t take it to Scotty. This proposal could go without credit approval. It was against bank policy, but after the company accepted it—and at ten million on these terms, they would definitely accept it—he’d figure out how to get it through the bank’s approval process. He’d work Mark around Scotty if he had to. He’d hammer on the bank’s reputation for delivering on proposals without a bait and switch. He’d take on the loan committee himself. But he’d get it done. Even in a recession, you needed new business. That much in new loan outstandings would bump his totals to a level the home office had never known. The loan was aggressive enough that he could charge a higher premium for it, and its income would drive the entire division’s profitability into uncharted territory.

Of course, it could all go wrong. Flushing a loan charge-off that big would not only tank his year, it would drive the whole bank into the red.

He took another look at the spreadsheets. He could liquidate the company’s hard assets if it came to that—maybe get half the loan paid off that way.