John Locke - Wish List

I turn my head to find the seat on my right occupied by an elderly lady wearing a hat that looks so ridiculous, people behind her are pointing and laughing. It’s enormous, and beige, with a dozen huge, mud-brown feathers protruding a foot out the top, arranged in a circle, like some sort of aviary Stonehenge. I can’t tear my eyes away from it, and wonder if maybe someone is filming the customers’ uproarious reactions for a hidden camera TV show.

“What’s good here?” she repeats.

“I’m sure it’s all good,” I say, slightly annoyed. I’m thinking about the whiz kid on my left, wondering if he’s self-employed. Maybe he could use a line of credit to expand his business.

The elderly lady says, “What do you order?”

I frown. I’d hoped to have a quiet lunch, maybe fortify myself with a glass of sake to keep me from going back to work and cutting Hilda’s head off. For a moment I think about stuffing her bloody, severed head in her panty hose like so much sausage, and smuggling it out of the bank. I picture her fat head bobbing up and down in the Ohio River current like a volleyball.

“I usually get the Derby Roll,” I say. “It’s got tempura shrimp in it. I don’t usually go for the raw stuff.”

She’s watching the sushi chef pack a roll.

“Does he touch everyone’s food with his hands like that?” she says, her voice much louder than necessary.

The sushi chef glares at her across the top of the glass bar, and I can only hope he doesn’t think we’re together. I look at his face and feel like hiding under my chair. She can’t possibly comprehend the magnitude of the insult she’s given him—suggesting he’s unclean. I try to diffuse the tension before the old bat insults him again.

“What type of sushi do you normally like?” I ask.

“Never tried it. Nor will I, after watching Tokyo Joe put his hands all over the food like he’s searching for a tumor.”

“For the love of God!” says a young lady on the far side of the bar. She gives her ahi tuna a look of horror and lets it fall to her plate.

“Well, if you don’t eat sushi…” I say to the old bat.

“I’m here for my granddaughter.”

I don’t understand. If she’s here for her granddaughter, why is she sitting at the raw bar with me?

“Did she stand you up?”

Her face registers surprise. “Of course not! She’s running late.”

I nod. My interest lies only in the kid on my left, and who, if anyone, is handling his finances. But I can’t seem to shut the lady up. I’ve become a conversation hostage.

“That’s what they say nowadays,” she says. “’Running late.’” She picks up a plastic menu in her gloved hands and frowns. “What does ‘running late’ even mean? She’s not running, she’s just late.”

The young man on my left finally looks up. A wave of recognition passes over his face.

“Mrs. Blankenship?”

She tilts her head up so she can peer at him through her bifocals.

“Do I know you, young man?”

He stands.

“Not personally, ma’am, but I help manage your AMCT.”

“My what?”

“Ali Maddox Charitable Trust.”

“That’s Allison,” she says, emphatically. “Not Ali.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. We often abbreviate, and shouldn’t. My mistake.”

Extending his hand to her he says, “I’m Rob Ketchel.”

She nods. “I don’t shake hands. Nothing personal, but you look like a scruffy vagabond to me. I suppose it’s the style nowadays.” To me she says, “I like the cut of your jib, though.”

She turns her attention back to the menu.

Rob is uncomfortable standing there with his hand outstretched. He holds the pose a moment, then reclaims his seat.

“My granddaughter intends to hit me up for a loan,” Mrs. Blankenship says. “You’d think she’d have the courtesy of meeting me at a decent restaurant and showing up on time.”

My outlook brightens. “A loan, you say?”

Chapter 8

Even without the hat, Mrs. Blankenship is overdressed for Tokyo Blue. She’s wearing a tan linen skirt, white silk blouse, and a linen jacket that’s too young and hip for her. The jewelry adorning her hands and wrists is the old fashioned, inherited kind.

It’s finally coming together for me: Mrs. Blankenship. The Allison Maddox Charitable Trust. Sitting next to me, liking the cut of my jib, is none other than Whitney Blankenship, one of the wealthiest women in America.

I signal the waitress and clear my throat.

“I’ll have a Derby Roll, and my lady friend will have a miso soup and salad.”

Before Mrs. Blankenship can protest, I say, “My treat.” Then I whisper, “They don’t touch the soup or salad with their fingers.”

She assesses me a moment, and says, “Well, why not? Serves my granddaughter right. I’ll just start eating without her.”

“An excellent lesson in punctuality,” I say. Then add, “What type of loan is your granddaughter seeking?”

Mrs. Blankenship raises her eyebrows at my impudence.

“I’m only asking because I might be able to help. I’m a loan officer.”

“For whom?”

“Midwest Commercial.”

“Truly?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“I wouldn’t know. You might.”

“True. But why would I?”

She ponders this a moment, then says, “How’s Jake?”

She’s referring to Jackson “Jake” Robards, our President and CEO. Whitney Blankenship’s eyes are dancing with humor. She’s toying with me. Before I can respond she says, “When I wish to secure a loan from your bank I call Jake personally. Why on earth would I waste my time dealing with you?”

I hear Rob Ketchel’s soft chuckle to my left. He’s enjoying what he assumes will be the evisceration of my ego. But I’ve got an idea, an argument so brilliant and powerful, it seems divinely inspired.

“Mrs. Blankenship,” I say. “Have you loaned money to your granddaughter in the past?”

“I don’t see what business that is of yours.”

“Bear with me, please. I’m trying to help. What’s your granddaughter’s name?”

“Chelsea.”

“I’m going to assume that Chelsea is like a lot of grandchildren I’ve worked with, and if so, she’s probably had a number of business ideas that haven’t always been sound. I’m also going to assume that you’re a loving grandparent who has loaned her money despite that fact. Or, at the very least, you co-signed her notes.”

“Well of course I have. I love my granddaughter.”

“But when we lend money for poor decisions, we’re not teaching our youngsters sound financial practices, are we?”

“Are you suggesting I refuse to lend her the money?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me?”

“In a way.”

She fixes a haughty gaze on me. “What’s your intention here?”

“To protect your money, and help your granddaughter, Chelsea, become financially responsible.”

“And?”

“And to convince you I’m the perfect person for this situation.”

“You, and not Jake Robards.”

“That’s correct.”

“And why is that?”

I smile. For once in my life I’m about to turn my biggest weakness as a loan officer into my biggest strength.

“My loans are required to go through committee for approval.”

“Well, I don’t see how that helps.”

“If you send Chelsea to me, I can help her formulate a business plan that will have to be approved by our loan committee. If they don’t like her idea, you’ll have the perfect excuse to keep her out of your pocketbook.”

She nods her head slowly. “And if they approve the loan?”

“They might lend Chelsea the money directly, and keep you out of it completely. Worst case scenario, you might have to guarantee the loan. But if they approve her loan, it’s almost certain to be a good risk.”