Shell Game (Stand Alone 2) (10 page)

“You’re okay with that performance?” Folsom asked.

Dougherty’s face reddened. She seemed confused for a moment. “I’d say that’s pretty good performance considering the economic climate and the bank’s aversion to taking too much risk.”

“And on a mark-to-market basis, what’s the current value of the portfolio?” Folsom pushed.

“The Treasuries and Muni’s are in a profit position of 101.2, or slightly more than $167 million.”

“And the MBS?”

“The mortgage-backed securities are marked at eighty-three percent of par. We’ve lost $6.1 million on that part of the portfolio.”

“Jesus Christ! What idiot put us in mortgage bonds?” Folsom suddenly looked rabid.

Dougherty’s lips compressed. She straightened her back and stuck out her chin a bit. “I am the head of the Investment Committee. I am responsible for our investment policy. I—”

Eli Black cleared his throat, interrupting. “Our investment decisions are made by committee. Frances executes our strategy. Despite the drop in the mark-to-market valuation of the MBS, the performance of that part of the portfolio is exceptional. Delinquencies are less than two percent, despite what has been going on in the residential real estate markets. And as the economy improves so will the value of these securities.”

Folsom glared malevolently at Black. “Nice speech, Mr. Black. That kind of attitude caused the Feds to bring me in to salvage this sinking ship.”

“I believe that’s a mischaracterization of this bank, Mr. Folsom. Broad Street National has continued to be profitable, despite the economy, and the regulators’ action in taking over this institution was without justification.”

Folsom leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter. The others in the room sat as though frozen in place. Cunningham let slip a sly smile.

“You don’t seem happy about the ownership change, Mr. Black. In fact, you look downright displeased. The last thing I want is unhappy employees.” He turned to Cunningham. “Sandy, escort Mr. Black down to his office, give him five minutes to collect his personal things, and then toss his unhappy ass out on the street.”

Black jumped out of his chair and stormed out of the room without a word. Cunningham followed him out.

“Anyone else want to defend the bank’s investment strategy or portfolio?” Folsom asked, an edge of malice to his voice.

Frances Dougherty lowered her head as the others stared at one another silently . No one made eye contact with Folsom.

“Ms. Dougherty,” Folsom said.

She raised her head slightly and looked in Folsom’s direction.

“What’s the size of the CD portfolio and its average interest cost?”

Dougherty referred to another sheet of paper. “$479 million at an average cost of slightly less than three point five percent.”

“Are you aware that when the FDIC takes over a bank it has the power to renegotiate all contracts, including CD contracts?”

She slowly nodded.

“Good. Mr. Cunningham will provide you with a letter tomorrow that I want mailed to every CD depositor on Thursday, reducing the rate we pay on all CDs. I want our average cost on CDs to be one point two percent.”

Frances Dougherty looked frightened, but she mustered the courage to respond. “There will be a run on the bank. We have a large number of customers who are retired, who depend on their monthly interest payments. They’ll cash in their accounts and take them elsewhere.”

“Fuck them!” Folsom barked. “That’s exactly what I expect and want to happen. The last thing I want around here is a bunch of retiree depositors sucking off this bank’s teat.” He paused and stared at Dougherty. “You have a problem with that?”

She shook her head and mouthed, “No, sir.”

“Good.” Folsom turned to Stanley Burns. “Okay Burns, let’s hear about the loan portfolio.”

Stanley Burns was a forty-nine-year-old who had started his banking career with Bank of America and been recruited by Broad Street National in 2005. The driving force behind the growth of Broad Street National Bank’s commercial loan portfolio, he was a dynamic, sales-oriented lender who had a great way with customers. At the moment, though, he was not feeling good about his role in that growth. He hoped his weariness didn’t show as he slouched in his chair, appearing as though he was trying to hide behind the table in front of him. At six feet four inches tall and two hundred twenty pounds, that wasn’t easy. He hesitated during his presentation when Sanford Cunningham nonchalantly returned and took his seat.

“Something wrong, Burns?” Folsom asked.

Burns swallowed, shook his head, and continued to summarize the yield on the loan portfolio, the delinquent loans, those that were under-collateralized, and those maturing in the next six months. He estimated any losses the bank might take. After twenty-five tense minutes, Burns finished.

After a beat, Folsom began. “I want a few pieces of information, Mr. Burns,” he said. “And I want them by the end of business tomorrow.

“First, I want specifics on the delinquent loans that are underwater. What’s the estimated fire-sale value of collateral securing underwater loans? If we have personal guarantees on any of these loans, what’s the chance of collecting on those guarantees? Are we holding other collateral in addition to the real estate on any of these underwater borrowers?”

Burns took notes at a frenetic pace.

“Second,” Folsom continued without waiting for a response, “I want a list of all loans maturing in the next six months and the value of the underlying collateral and the fire-sale value of that collateral. Also, the amount of deposits these borrowers have in the bank. And, finally, I want a write-up on the businesses these borrowers own—profitability, stuff like that—and whether our loans are on owner-occupied real estate. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give that information to Mr. Cunningham tomorrow,” Folsom said. Folsom stood and, in turn, derisively met the gaze of each of the bankers. “The rest of you can give your presentations to Mr. Cunningham. Understand something, ladies and gentlemen. If you want to keep your jobs here, you have one objective: To make money. I don’t give a shit about the Community Reinvestment Act, or charitable contributions, or fucking retirees who depend on interest payments. I care about making money.” He then added, “One of you will replace Eli Black as president of this bank on Friday. We’ll see who wants that position most.”

Folsom wagged a finger at Cunningham, wheeled around, and walked out, waiting for Cunningham to join him outside the room.

“The list of loans you sent me this morning. There was one to a company named Winter Enterprises. Tell me about it.”

“I don’t know a lot yet, except the company has fast food joints all over the city. The principal shareholder is Edward Winter. Why?”

“Find out if Edward Winter is related to a guy who was president of a bank over twenty years ago. A guy named Frank Winter.”

Cunningham shrugged, unconcerned with Folsom’s strange request. “I’ll let you know.”

Folsom felt as though he’d popped six Viagra pills. The bank meeting he’d just left had given him a sexual high almost as good as kicking the shit out of Wendy. Even though mousey Francis Dougherty wasn’t his type—too old, too heavy, too plain—the fear in her eyes stirred feelings in his groin. As he drove home, he pictured his bruised and battered wife and contemplated the pleasure she would give him.

Wendy Folsom stumbled as she moved slowly around her bedroom, still dressed in nothing but her bathrobe. She’d tried to put on panties, a blouse, and a skirt, but her body couldn’t bend to accomplish it. Every movement hurt like nothing she had ever experienced before.

She was embarrassed that during the first year of her marriage, she had actually enjoyed Gerald’s aggressive approach to sex. It was something new and exciting. But over the last year, he had become even more aggressive, slapping her with more force than usual, putting his hands around her neck and cutting off her breath during orgasm. It heightened the intensity of her orgasms, but it frightened her as well. But Saturday night, into Sunday morning, had been a different thing altogether. The only part that had anything to do with sex was Gerald penetrating her. Everything else was assault and battery, plain and simple. And she had never seen him so excited.

There was no doubt in Wendy’s mind that her husband had stepped up to another level of violence, and she knew she would not suffer another such beating. She’d already had enough of his narcissism, his ego and his arrogance. Add in the violence and she was through.

She finished putting a few things in an overnight bag, including all of her jewelry and what little cash she had, and lugged it downstairs with a great deal of difficulty. She went through the kitchen, into the garage, and hoisted the bag into the trunk of her Infiniti SUV. On the way back to her bedroom, Wendy paused in the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She hadn’t had anything to eat or drink, except water, since Saturday evening, knowing her stomach wouldn’t keep anything down. She sipped half the glass before her stomach began to cramp.

The climb back upstairs was slow and painful. She took one step at a time, resting on each tread but by the time she reached the top, she was exhausted. As badly as she wanted to dress and get out of the house, she couldn’t muster the energy. Just a few minutes of rest, she told herself as she slowly sat on her bed. Groaning as she laid her head on her pillow, she closed her eyes. A fuzzy feeling invaded her head and she tried to force herself to stay awake. She knew what was happening. The heavy-duty pain killers and the muscle relaxers she’d taken were having an effect. Just a few minutes of rest, she told herself.

Gerald Folsom arrived home at 6:30 p.m. “Wendy, I’m home,” he called out in a taunting voice. No answer. He called out again, with the same result. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom and tossed his suit jacket over a clothes tree. He stripped off his tie and shirt and dropped them on the floor.

“Wendy, where the hell are you?” he shouted. Still no response.

Folsom crossed through the bathroom between his and his wife’s bedrooms and spied Wendy asleep on her bed, lying on her side with her back to him. She was still wearing the bathrobe she’d had on when he left that morning, the same thing she’d had on since Sunday morning. He prodded her shoulder with his fingertips. She groaned but didn’t wake up.

He opened her robe and was briefly shocked at the extent of the yellow and black bruises and red and black hemorrhages on her body. He hadn’t realized he’d beaten her so badly. The damage surprised him; it didn’t make him feel shame or regret. In fact, the thought of screwing her battered body made him more excited, imagining the pain his weight on her would cause, and other ways to increase her pain. He poked her again, with no response.

“Shit!” he barked. “Bitch!” Fucking was no fun if she wasn’t aware of it.

He shed the rest of his clothes and put on an exercise outfit before going outside and jogging around the interior perimeter of his property. After forty-five minutes, he returned to his room, showered, and dressed in khakis, a short-sleeved polo shirt, and deck shoes. He decided to go out to eat, hoping Wendy would be conscious by the time he returned. The thought of her being awake, her body bruised, gave him an erection.

Katherine hadn’t made any plans for dinner; it was too late to start cooking something, and she didn’t feel like going out by herself. Then the thought struck her that she had not treated Paul Sanders very well yesterday. She’d used him, put him at risk, and then hadn’t thanked him for going to Folsom’s house with her even though he had gone with her to protect her. “Aw, crap,” she said, feeling guilty.

She went to her telephone, called Paul’s number, and waited for him to answer, all the while wondering about what she was doing.

“Hello?” Paul answered.

“Paul, it’s Katherine.”

“Oh, hi. Is something wrong?”

“Well, yes, Paul. Something’s wrong. I—”

“What is it, Katherine. Do you need me to come over there?” Paul sounded immediately urgent.

“Whoa, Paul. Let me finish. What’s wrong is that I feel bad about the way I handled things yesterday and want to make amends. Would you be willing to have dinner with me tonight? My treat.”

“Are we going to break into anyone’s house after dinner? Will I need to bring a flashlight and wear dark clothing?”

“Do you want to have dinner with me or not?” Katherine asked, beginning to get peeved at Paul’s teasing.

Paul laughed. “Of course I accept your invitation. I’ll pick you up in, say, a half-hour.”

“Good,” she said, and hung up, surprising herself with how much she was looking forward to dinner with Paul.

Edward, trying to restore some semblance of normality back into their home life, had a quiet dinner at home with Betsy. He knew his stress had infected Betsy: She usually was tired from the pregnancy, but had looked utterly exhausted the last few days.

“What time’s your appointment at the bank tomorrow?” Betsy asked.

“Ten o’clock. I’m pretty encouraged. I had a nice conversation with the president of Philadelphia Bank & Trust this afternoon. His bank doesn’t seem to be in the same situation as most others.”

“That’s good,” Betsy said, somewhat absent-mindedly.