John Locke - Wish List

As if that’s not enough, Lissie got her concert tickets last night, and I’ve become a hero in her eyes. I called it right, thinking some rich guy checking the Wish List website must have seen my request for tickets and made it come true.

Today at breakfast we’re all smiles. She’s talking about what she plans to wear to the concert on Friday.

“We better get moving,” I say, “and quick!”

“Why the sudden rush? I thought you were bulletproof.”

I pointed at the window behind her.

“Check it out.”

Across the street, two men in dark suits were knocking on our neighbor’s door.

Lissie laughed. “Jehovah’s Witnesses? No problem, Glen and Barbara can handle them.”

“Which means they’ll be knocking on our door soon.”

“Good point. Let’s roll!”

Thirty minutes later I’m at my desk. Oglethorpe is watching me from his office door. You’d think he’d be thrilled that his branch is getting a big client, but no, he and Hilda are clearly upset. He’s had all he can take. He strides to my desk and in his most demanding voice, says, “Who’s your client?”

“You’ll see.”

“I could fire you before he arrives.”

“Go ahead.”

He’s flustered. For the first time since I’ve known him, he can’t intimidate me.

“Was there anything else?” I say.

“This better be good, Flapjack.”

“Oh, it’s good, Ogleshit.”

“What did you call me?”

I’m about to repeat the insult in a loud voice so everyone in the office can enjoy it, but I suddenly hear a gasp from the desk beside me, and notice my co-worker, Marjorie Campbell, isn’t looking well. She’s staring at the front door in horror. I follow her gaze. Two women have just entered the bank, wearing skimpy, skin-tight clothing. Their hair is wild and their makeup provocative. They appear to be hookers.

Hilda races across the floor.

“Oh no, you don’t! Get out! Out! Gus?”

Gus awakes with a start, stumbles off his stool, grabs the butt of his gun, and looks around, surveying the situation.

One of the whores says something I can’t hear. Hilda says, “Oh really?”

Then she starts cackling.

Oglethorpe says, “What’s the meaning of this?”

Hilda shouts, “They’re here to see Mr. Pancake about a business loan.”

I jump to my feet and cross the floor to the women.

“Chelsea?”

“Hi, hon,” she says. “This here’s Emma Glendenning, my life partner.”

I hustle them into the conference room, where I learn that Chelsea (five foot seven, bursting with tits) and Emma (braided armpit hair, pink spandex camel toe shorts, black and white prison-striped leggings) intend to start an online lesbian porn site with a twenty-four hour live camera feed covering every room in their house.

“Every room?” I say, as if that makes a difference.

“Of course!” Chelsea says. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be an authentic portrayal.”

“Of?”

“Of our lives.”

I excuse myself and go to the employee wash room to splash some cold water on my face. I should flush myself down the toilet to catch up with my career, but instead I call the phone number Mrs. Blankenship gave me.

She answers, and I say, “Did Chelsea tell you what she and Emma plan to do with the loan proceeds?”

“I have a general idea, but I’d prefer not to hear the details. Why do you ask?”

“I mean, are you okay with this?”

“I have no control over her. Kids nowadays! It’s all about fornication and sex tapes.”

I rejoin the girls in the conference room, fill out the forms because I said I would, and escort them out of the building as surreptitiously as possible. Moments later Oglethorpe is reading my notes, laughing hysterically. He calls Hilda into his office and their conjoined laughter practically shakes the windows. Hilda opens the door and says, “Mr. Flapjack. If you would be so kind.”

I enter Oglethorpe’s office like my feet are made of lead. In less than a minute, it’s over.

“Your contemptuous behavior toward Hilda yesterday, your deliberately profane pronunciation of my name today, and this joke of a loan application leave me no choice but to terminate your employment, effective immediately.”

I’m thinking of future Chelsea Blankenship loans and wonder if I can convince him there is still value to be mined from the connection to Whitney Blankenship.

“Mr. Oglethorpe?”

“Shut up, Flapjack. Go clean out your desk. You’ve got ten minutes to gather your things. Then Gus will escort you to your car.”

I turn to leave, but Oglethorpe’s door is suddenly blocked by a lean, well-dressed businessman holding a manila folder in his left hand. He looks all business, and tough in a way that reminds me of a thirty-five year old Charles Bronson, with thick, black eyebrows and scrunched up facial features. His French cuffs are held in place with square-cut diamonds that, if real, appear to be at least four carats each. His left wrist sports a diamond-studded Piaget watch with a black alligator wrist band. The lines of the suit are unmistakable, though I’ve seen few of them in Louisville.

Bad as I feel, I can’t help myself. I have to ask. “Is that a Brioni?”

“It is.”

I nod, and start heading for my desk.

“May I help you?” Oglethorpe says, addressing the businessman.

“I’m looking for Buddy Pancake.”

Stunned, I jerk my head around. Hilda, revealing her West End heritage, says, “He don’t work here no more.”

The businessman looks at Oglethorpe. “Is that true?”

“It is.”

“Well that’s a pity.”

“How so?”

“I had hoped to apply for a twenty million dollar line of credit for my business.”

“I can handle that for you!”

“Thanks, but I’ve been told to deal only with Mr. Pancake.” He looks at me. “Are you he?”

I’m too stunned to speak.

“And you are?” Oglethorpe says.

The man presents his card with a practiced flourish.

My hopes are beginning to skyrocket.

But then Oglethorpe reads it and says, “Thomas Jefferson? That’s very funny.”

Thomas Jefferson nods as if he’s accustomed to this type of response. Then he hands Oglethorpe the manila folder.

“My credit information. Let me know by noon on Friday if I might be of value to your bank. Assuming you reconsider employing Mr. Pancake.”

Oglethorpe glances over the papers in the folder. He’s a seasoned professional, adept at getting to the bottom line quickly. As he does so, his eyes grow wide as saucers.

“Do you mean to imply you’re worth a quarter billion dollars?”

“I expect you to do a thorough check.”

“Count on it, Mr. Jefferson. And if this is accurate?” He held the folder in his left hand and tapped it lightly with his right. “You don’t need Mr. Pancake. You can deal with me directly, for instant approval.”

“No offense, but I deal exclusively with Buddy Pancake. If on Friday he’s no longer an employee of your bank I’ll follow him to his next job.”

I can’t believe what’s happening! An hour ago I thought the Blankenships would save my career, but they killed it. Now, this total stranger appears out of nowhere to save my job. I’m overwhelmed. I try to form the proper words to thank him, but when I clear my throat to speak, Mr. Jefferson holds up his hand.

“I’ll require a loan application,” he says.

Oglethorpe isn’t convinced, but he isn’t stupid, either. He allows me to fetch a loan app for Mr. Jefferson.

“Thanks, Buddy,” he says. “I’ll bring it back at noon, Friday.” He starts to leave, then turns and hands me his business card, and says, “In the event you’re no longer working here, take this to First City and tell Burt Jennings you’ve got my account. And Buddy?”

“Yes sir?”

“When you tell him your income requirements, give yourself a raise.”

When Jefferson leaves, Oglethorpe tells me to stay at my desk until he is able to verify Thomas Jefferson’s creditworthiness.

An hour later, a very sheepish Edward Oglethorpe calls me into his office and offers to reinstate me with full benefits and a modest raise.

I tell him I’ll need to take a couple days off to consider his offer. I’ll give him my decision by noon on Friday.

Then I blow him an air kiss and walk out the front door before his head explodes.

Chapter 11

It’s Friday morning, and all is right with the world. Lissie and I are in the kitchen again, having coffee.

“You think he’ll show?”

“I do.”

“Have you learned anything more about him?”

“Nothing more than I’ve told you.”

After leaving the bank on Tuesday, I’d spent two hours researching Thomas Jefferson, of Simcoe, Jefferson Development. It had taken only minutes on the internet to learn that Mr. Jefferson had recently announced his intentions to build a hotel and casino on the Ohio River to compete with the Horseshoe Southern Indiana gaming complex.

“Any idea how he got your name?”

“Best guess, Mrs. Blankenship recommended me.”

“Did you ask her about it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I figured if she wanted me to know, she’d have told me.”

“And she recommended you over every other loan officer in Louisville because?”

“You just want me to say it.”

“I do.”

“She likes the cut of my jib.”

“Uh huh.” Lissie takes a sip of coffee. I like what I see in her eyes these days when she looks at me. There had always been love, but now there’s something else. Respect. Or maybe I respect myself more, and she’s reflecting that.

“Tell me again about her hat.”

I do, and she laughs.

“I still don’t believe you about the hat,” she says.

Wednesday and Thursday I attacked Lissie’s “honey do” list of minor repairs I’d been putting off for the past year. I also got my car to the shop for the oil change and replacement tire I needed. With the raise I’d been promised, I bought a cable subscription and bonded with the all-sports channel I’d coveted for years.

Lissie looks at her watch and says, “What time are you going in today?”

“Eleven should be late enough to make Oglethorpe sweat.”

“Don’t push him too far. He’s been known to steal your clients before.”

“I’ve got it covered.”

“What time will you be home today?”

“No later than six. Why?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Oh yeah. The concert.”

“We need to leave by seven-thirty at the latest.”

“No problem.”

Chapter 12

It’s twelve-thirty and I’m with Mr. Jefferson. In a limousine, not my office.

A half hour ago he entered the bank, handed Oglethorpe his loan application, and said, “Mr. Oglethorpe, if you have no objection, I plan to team up with Mr. Pancake for a round of golf against my partner, Ben Simcoe, and our CFO, Tony Blair.”

“Tony Blair,” he said. “Like the Prime Minister.”

Jefferson nodded. “How long will it take to process my loan request?”

“Dealing as you are with Buddy, ten full days. Or we could bypass him and put you in play this very afternoon.”

“Tempting,” Jefferson said. “But I can wait.”

Thomas Jefferson caught a ride with me to Louis Challa’s Italian Restaurant, where we picked up panini sandwiches to go. Then the limo pulled up, so we left my car at the restaurant, and here we are.

Jefferson and I are the only passengers in the limo. There’s a mini bar and TV on the right wall, and an outrageously long seat on the left that curves into a bench opposite us. For easy access, there’s a third cabin door where that seat ends. From my vantage point I can see the back and side of the embroidered cap our driver is wearing.

A hundred “pin pricks” of fiber optic lighting in the ceiling switches from purple to blue, as does the plastic tube bordering the windows. When the blue turns to red, I cup the soft glove leather seat with my hand and wonder how long it takes rich people to get used to such opulence.

“Care for a bourbon?” Jefferson says.

“I’m good.”

As we sit in silence, the light show changes from red to blue to green to yellow and back to the original purple. It’s an impressive array, one I never knew existed, but one I’d grow tired of if I sat here long enough, much like the Muzak tape at the bank. Of course, while sitting in the limo, you don’t have to look at the lights. You can look out the window as I’m doing now, watching us pass through the chain link gates of Glenwood Aviation. Now we’re on the tarmac, slowly rolling toward a bright white Gulfstream jet, with burgundy striping.

Glenwood Aviation? Gulfstream jet?

“Where are you taking me?”

“Think about it.”

I do, but nothing comes to mind.

“Did Mrs. Blankenship refer you to me?”

“Who?”

“Whitney Blankenship? The heiress? Richest family in Kentucky?”

He shrugs. “Oh, that Whitney Blankenship.”

Seeing I’m alarmed, he adds, “Sorry, never had the pleasure.”

“Then what the hell is going on here?”

The limo stops. The driver gets out and stands beside Jefferson’s door. Jefferson turns to me and we lock eyes. “I’m going to level with you,” he says. “We’re not playing golf today.”

“We’re not?”

He shakes his head

I look out the window and notice the jet’s cabin door is open and the stairs have been lowered. A uniformed man who I assume is the co-pilot, stands quietly at the base of the stairs waiting.

Waiting for what?

I turn back to Jefferson.

“You think I’m gonna just hop on a jet with no idea where I’m going? I don’t even know you!”

Jefferson sighs, but says nothing.

“Look, I appreciate what you’ve done for me, saving my job and all. But I can’t go with you. My wife and I have plans tonight.”

He dismisses my words with a wave of his hand. “You’ll be back in plenty of time for the concert. In fact, you and Lissie will be riding to it in this very limo.”

I do a double take. He knows about the concert? He knows my wife’s name? I don’t know what to say. I look at his steel-grey eyes and his diamond cuffs and think Jefferson may not be the scariest guy in the world, but he’s certainly making me uncomfortable.

“Hannibal.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m taking you to Hannibal, Missouri.”

“Hannibal.”

“That’s right. It’s forty minutes there, forty back, and we’ll be there two, two-and-a-half hours, max. We’ll get you to Louis Challa’s by five to retrieve your car, and you’ll be home by five-thirty. Perkins will be in your driveway at six. You’ve got dinner reservations at Guiseppi’s at six-fifteen, and from there, it’s on to the concert.”

“You must be joking! I can’t afford all that!”