53. Bank Ballet

Jamie always began his mornings by reading the newspapers online, and he didn't feel the least bit guilty for charging the Trust for his reading time; he did the same thing when he was a reporter, it was part of his job then and it stayed so now.

Two items in the Indianapolis paper caught his eye; one was a statewide top-ten "endangered places" list put out by a landmarks organization; the other was an annual AIDS fundraising concert to be held soon at Clowes Hall, the big concert venue on the Butler University campus. He knew the name of the man who was heading the lineup, a dancer/choreographer formerly with the Martha Graham Company in New York, who moved to the city 20 years ago after losing ten of his fellow dancers to HIV. The performance would be held the following Monday, so maybe the volunteer baseball coach could go.

Jamie ordered ten VIP tickets, then wondered who else he could get; Martha, Aunt Penn, Joey and Cher, the Judge perhaps. He offered the others to the Rector of Crawfordsville and his partner, who would surely know someone in the parish who would be interested in a night of music and dance. Besides, Ma could wear one of her new dresses.

Among the endangered landmarks was something called the Farmers' Institute near Lafayette, the first rural school in that county, built by Quakers in the 1830s and listed on the National Register. If Josiah wasn't involved in it, he had to have known the people who were; Jamie asked Mrs. Shuey to research the project and gave her his laptop. Jamie had seen a historical marker for the place once; he couldn't remember the name of the little town it was located in. The squib said the Farmers' Institute attracted students from all over the Great Lakes, prior to the 1860s founding of Purdue University, which promptly put it out of business. If he decided to help out with the fundraising, it sounded like it ought to be a Kessler Trust undertaking.

Mrs. Shuey quickly came back and said, "I found one interesting fact already. The community where the Farmers' Institute is located was originally named Quaker Grove."

"Then it must be connected to this place somehow. Phone Aunt Penn and find out if she knows."

The two notices raised an issue he hadn't dealt with yet, his own charitable contributions. So far all he'd done was tell other people how much they ought to give, instead of giving away any money himself. Jesus talked about that in the Gospel of Matthew—in the hypocrite section.

The InFashion deal wouldn't close until September 30, but in the meantime Jamie needed to put a charitable mechanism in place. He'd assumed he would set up a foundation of some kind, but the more he learned about how regulated nonprofits were, the more disenchanted he grew. The tax laws were pretty strict. He supported the principle—if you want a tax deduction, you'd better give away the money and be able to prove it—but there was a lot of paperwork, which meant expensive overhead, boards of trustees, accountants and lawyers. A foundation would be its own legal "person" with a tax ID and all; what was the benefit of it? Did he want other people advising him on his own charity? Did he want to go through meetings all the time, or did he just want to give to organizations he liked?

He was inclined to just keep a separate bank account and call it the Jamie Foster Fund, rather than create an entity with a life of its own. He'd have to talk to Judge Schneider and his lawyer at B&T about it. He didn't want a monument to himself after he was dead; most foundations were set up by much older philanthropists, people doing estate planning, providing for children he didn't have. He decided for the present to maximize his freedom, keep his options open, be an independent operator. If there were advantages to a foundation he could set one up later.

So allowing $450 million straight off the top for capital gains tax—the actual amount would be less, because the $3 billion proceeds didn't account for the $8 opening price of the initial public offering, but $450 million was a good ballpark figure to start with—and another $300 million as his personal tithe, that left him $2.25 billion that was actually his. He blinked; the amount was staggering.

He had to give away $300 million so he could look St. Peter in the eye; how would he do it? He did a little math, gave himself 20 years to finish the job, which came to giving away $15 million a year. He wondered how much that was per day; about $42,000, every day of his life for two decades. Per week, $288,000, every week. But taking ten people to the AIDS fundraising concert only cost $1200, plus they'd get entertainment, a reception and an afterparty out of it. That dancer/choreographer would doubtless want to know who the Tall Handsome Cop was.

Twelve hundred down, only $40,800 to go—for one day! He made up a sign for his office wall with the daily, weekly and annual goals and a slogan, "Don't Think Small." Of course he could give the rest of the 40 grand to the beneficiary organization, an outfit called the Indiana AIDS Fund, but the only thing he knew about them was that Mr. Choreographer thought they were worthwhile; he'd been running the benefit for over a decade, and it did supposedly fund services all over the state.

Jamie sighed. Being really responsible with his contributions would mean another full-time job like the Kessler Trust; they were about equal in assets. He'd have to educate himself, meet people and listen, read reports and weigh each possible donation against all others. That was probably the real reason rich people create foundations and hire a staff, so all they have to do is show up at the dance concert. He laughed to keep from crying; maybe he'd need a full-time chauffeur just to take him back and forth to Clowes Hall.

He really didn't want to live in that world; he wanted to get naked and fuck—if not literally and if not that very second, then figuratively, yes, that's what he wanted, cooking and lounging around the pool in his skivvies with Tall Dark and Handsome. Maybe they could be playboys—but he knew that would bore them both, and there's nothing worse than a fuck when you were bored to start with.

Still, he wanted to live in the Virgin Islands in his swimming trunks, not in Bumfuck, Indiana where the winters last half the year. He called out to Mrs. Shuey, "Is it ever going to warm up around here?" She took this question as rhetorical and kept hunting for how to contact those surviving Quakers; the Institute was still used as a meetinghouse, but the congregation was tiny and getting old fast. She found an e-mail address and wrote for more information.

Then he said, "I think it's time I saw the Bank of Friends."

***

The bank building was a small old Italianate storefront with an apartment or two above it, right on the principal corner downtown where Kessler Chapel Road met Main Street. Mrs. Shuey had no problem parking; the streets were empty. The glass front door had an FDIC sticker and a sign that gave the hours, 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. Monday through Thursday, till 5 p.m. Friday, closed on Saturday. There was a one-lane drive-thru off the alley.

She waited while he went inside. The furnishings were modest; there were three antique teller cages, but only one was open. He walked up to it and waited for a woman to appear. When she did he said, "I'd like to open an account."

"For yourself?"

He wondered who else it would be for. "Yes."

"Please have a seat."

So he sat and waited five minutes, until another woman in a business suit came and invited him to her office. She introduced herself as Mrs. Padgett and did not offer her hand. He gave her his name. She sat at a banker's desk from which to look down at him. "You'd like to open an account?"

"Yes."

"Personal or business?"

"Personal."

"Fine. How did you come to choose us?"

"I live nearby."

She got out her paperwork. "Name?"

"I just told you my name. The account's to be called The Jamie Foster Fund."

"Oh, then you want a business account." She opened her drawer again.

"No, it's personal. Maybe it sounds like a business, but it's not."

"Then why don't you just put your name on it? If I may ask."

"I am putting my name on it. The Jamie Foster Fund."

"You can't use a name like that for a personal account."

"Why not?"

"Your name goes on a personal account."

He rubbed his forehead. "It's The Jamie Foster Fund to distinguish from my regular personal account."

"Is it a non-profit?"

"Yes, but it's not an organization. It's my personal funds."

"Can I ask what it's for, then?"

"Charitable contributions."

"As a separate account?"

"That's correct."

"Why do you need a separate account for contributions?"

"Because that's all I'll use it for, and I want to keep track of them."

"This is highly irregular."

"Do you want my money or not?"

"Well, certainly, but why do you need a separate account?"

"Why are you asking me these questions? Just write down The Jamie Foster Fund."

"But you said it's not a non-profit."

"I said it is a non-profit, it's just not organized. Gee, I thought this was the Bank of Friends. You don't act very friendly."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way."

"If I called it my household account would you give me such trouble?"

"No, then it would plainly be your personal funds."

"Look, I choose not to set up a non-profit organization. I merely want to segregate these funds from my other accounts."

"I ask because of government regulations. We have to establish the personal identity of all account holders. It helps prevent money laundering."

Did she think he was a drug lord? "My name is James Rees Foster." Then he suddenly remembered that Kent had his driver's license.

"Different regulations govern personal and business accounts. This is so there's no deception involved, which could lead to identity theft and other kinds of problems. You understand. We're required under the Patriot Act to know who all our customers are."

"I understand. If you'll permit me to make a phone call, I may be able to prove my identity to you right away. If not, we may not be able to finish this today. I do not have my driver's license with me, it's being held for safekeeping. In the meantime, please ask your boss who I am. Jamie Foster."

"My boss?"

"Is it not Robert Kessler?"

"Oh, the president of the bank. He's acquainted with you?"

Jamie all but laughed, remembering that stiff introduction on New Year's. "Believe it or not. It's his nephew Sgt. Kessler who has my license. He may or may not be able to provide it today."

"Well, we will need it."

"I know. May I use your phone?"

"I can dial it for you." He gave her the number, she dialed and handed over the receiver, then got up to check with her boss, the president.

Kent answered. "Mister, I'm at the bank, trying to open an account, which they don't seem to want to open. I need my driver's license."

"Uncle Bob knows you, dude."

"Well, Mrs. Padgett thinks I'm Osama bin Laden."

"Nah," Kent said, "he ain't blond. You ain't got no whiskers for that beard."

"Are you at all close by that you could bring it?"

"Not till later. Bank's closed by then, old-time banker's hours. They close at three, bud."

"Well, I'm sorry to take your time."

"I'll give it to you tonight. If you remind me."

"That's fine. Sorry, Kent."

"No problem, Chipper." They rang off.

Robert Kessler stuck his head in the door of Mrs. Padgett's office, then ducked back out again. He said something to her and walked away. She came back and sat. "He says he does know you slightly."

"It must be my lucky day."

"We'll need your driver's license, though."

"I know. I'm sorry not to have it." He gave her his Social Security card. She wrote the number down, then left to make a copy of it—which made him wonder why she wrote it down.

Soon she said, "I'm to accept your application, receive your deposit and give you a receipt. We'll hold your deposit in the bank safe and not process it until we have your proof of identity. It's just a formality, but we absolutely do need it. Then once we have all that taken care of, we'll process your deposit and issue your checks. Is that agreeable?"

"Yes. I do apologize."

"That's all right, we just have to follow our proper procedures with any new customer. Now if you'll fill out this application, we'll get this started." She handed him fourteen papers. The top said "Business Checking."

"I'll sign where you tell me to, of course, but I don't fill out paperwork. I'm proposing to give you money. I'm not here to apply for the privilege of giving you a hundred thousand dollars."

She stared at him. "You want to open an account, but you don't want to fill out the forms?"

"I never have before at any other bank; it ought to be your job, don't you think? Make things easy for a new customer, who proposes to begin a relationship with you, and meanwhile is evaluating your every move."

She looked offended, but took the papers back. "Name?" she asked.

"Thomason Q. Edison Brown," he said. "The Jamie Foster Fund. A personal account."

"We can only accept your deposit for a business account."

He had to find a way around this. "What's the difference in charges?"

"A business account is $12 a month, and each check you write is 25¢. With a minimum balance of $300, we waive the monthly fee but not the charge per check. A personal account costs the same $12, but the rules are different; we give you six free checks per month, then after that each one you write is 35¢. There's no minimum balance required on a personal account, nor do we give you a break if you maintain a certain balance—but we do offer an interest-bearing money market account if that would interest you. If you want an ATM card, that's an additional $25 per year. We don't allow bank cards on business accounts."

"No ATM card. I'll accept a business account, then."

"The Jamie Foster Fund," she said. "Address?"

"Hickory Grove, Town of Friends."

"That's the Kessler place."

"How do you suppose I know your boss?"

"Do you work there?"

"I live there."

"Come again?"

"Why?"

"You live at Hickory Grove?"

"That's correct."

"But that's Mrs. Kessler's place."

"It's her son's, actually."

"Well, yes, but how do you come to be living there?"

"Do you really ask such personal questions of your customers? Does everyone have to justify their place of residence to you?"

"You live there," she repeated. "Okay. What's the street address?"

"Hickory Grove."

"Well, yes, but we have to have a street address. Our computer won't accept an account without a street address. The post office can't deliver your monthly statements without a street address. The government won't allow an account without a street address."

"It's the only house on Hickory Grove Road. All the mail arrives addressed that way. The post office has no problem finding us."

"But what's the street address?"

"You have accounts for all the Kesslers, do you not?"

"Well, I couldn't comment on any of our other customers. It's a matter of privacy. The government is highly sensitive to matters of privacy."

"Look up Kent Kessler in your computer. See what street address he uses."

"I'm sure it's a street address."

"Look it up, please. I don't ask for his personal information; simply look up his address and copy it."

Mrs. Padgett fiddled with her computer, an ancient Dell. Finally she said, "Hickory Grove."

"Imagine that."

"Employer?"

"The Josiah Kessler Irrevocable Trust."

"Oh my. So you don't live at Hickory Grove, you work there."

"I live there, lady."

"But it's the Kesslers' place."

"I'll be sure to inform them. They'll be pleased to know they still own it."

She sighed. "Your position?"

"CEO."

"But that would make you…" Her eyes widened.

"Robert's boss."

She swallowed. "Robert doesn't have a boss. He's the president of this bank."

"The Trust owns this bank, lady, and that makes me his boss. If you ask me one more stupid question I'll have your head on a stick."

"Maybe you should deal with him, then. I'm sure it would be more pleasant for you that way."

"Oh, no, if I had him to deal with, I'd need another stick. Please, just take my money so I can get out of here." He wrote a check to open the account.

She stared at it. "Just a moment, please." She left a third time.

He waited for his receipt. Then Robert showed up again with the check in his hand. "Where did you get all this money?"

Jamie gave him a look of incredulity. "I stole it—from a dumb hick baseball player up on Hickory Grove Road. Then I came here to the bank he owns to give it right back again. Could I have my receipt, please?"

"We can't accept this deposit. We don't know where this money came from."

"Ask Warren Buffett, you idiot. He'll tell you to go fuck yourself." Jamie grabbed the check, tore it up and walked out. He wondered if steam was rolling out his ears.

Mrs. Shuey drove him home; when they arrived the phone was ringing. "That's Kent," he said.

She answered, then said, "He's right here."

Jamie took the phone. "Hi, Commander! How's tricks?"

"Man, what the hell did you do to that bank?"

Jamie laughed. "I made the awful mistake of trying to give them a hundred thousand dollars. They didn't want it unless I could document my entire life story."

Kent laughed too. "I got Uncle Bob yellin' at me on the other line."

"It wasn't because of the driver's license; they were willing to hold the deposit until I could show them my ID. Bush's so-called Patriot Act, you know, everyone's bin Laden now. You'd think I walked in with a towel on my head from the Holiday Inn."

"Bob said somethin' about stolen money."

"Well, you said you'd pay my bills. Maybe Aunt Penn was right about me."

"He locked the place down, Jamie."

"Yes!" Jamie chortled, pumping his fist. "You call it a bank but it's really a comedy club."

"What am I s'posed to tell him?"

"Just hang up. That will tell him all he needs to know."

"He's talkin' about auditing all the family accounts to find out who you stole it from."

"He's the one who ought to be audited, Kent. He treats customers like dirt."

"Man, I can't let you go nowhere. Can't let you outta my sight. Havoc everywhere I turn."

Jamie giggled. "You always said I was dangerous. So now you know."

"What happened exactly?"

"I just went to open an account, a separate one for my charitable contributions. It will make the accounting easier, run a simple report every quarter. I'm trying to give $5000 every day for the rest of Lent; that's my discipline, because I can't get anywhere close to a tithe yet."

"Well, hang on." Kent put him on hold and punched another button. "Uncle Bob, you're fired. So's Jill Padgett, that secretary of yours you been bangin'. I want your desks cleared out by the time I get there."

He cut the call and got back to Jamie. "Well, that's took care of, at least for a half hour."

"What happened?"

"I fired his ass."

"Well, I'm sorry to say I can't disagree with that."

"He knows exactly who you are, Jamie—and he told Jill Padgett, too. Man, he sat right there and listened to Aunt Penn tell everyone your company's traded on the Nasdaq. I bet he's been plannin' this for months. They shoulda ushered you in like a VIP. Handed you a cocktail and a chocolate chip cookie."

"I'm sorry if I caused you a problem, Kent."

"Hell, Jamie, he's been screwin' me over too. Got all my CDs tied up just 'cause I get $15 overdrawn sometimes, you wouldn't believe what a mess it is. I shoulda fired him a long time ago. Man, that's my Baseball Money! Don't no one mess with my Baseball Money."

"Well, I am sorry, Kent."

"Nah, it's my own fault. Put if off, like I do everything. Don't know who I can get to run the bank, though." Kent thought a second. "You interested?"

"Lord, Kent, I don't know the first thing about banking!"

"That makes two of us. What am I gonna do now?"

"Notify the FDIC. Put up a sign, Closed for Audit, Reopen Tomorrow at 9 a.m."

"I'll swing by to get ya."

"Well, do be prepared to tell them the street address of Hickory Grove."

"Shoot, that'd confuse the post office; I don't think we've even got a street address. I know that mailman, though, he's dumb as rocks. Lester can find the big house just fine, but if he had to locate a certain number on Hickory Grove Road we'd have to drag the creek for him, he'd be lost for months. Don't let 'em fool ya, this is all 'cause you're Gay."

"Mrs. Padgett said her computer wouldn't accept anything but a street address. When that didn't work she tried to hide behind the Patriot Act."

"Twenty minutes, dude. But I do warn you, there's a real bad spankin' comin' tonight."

"Oh Daddy, you're so good to me."

"Later, gator. Meanwhile don't go nowhere. If we need groceries you ain't allowed in the store. No post office, no gas station, got that? Don't even be pickin' no daisies by the side of the road. You ain't goin' nowhere long as this keeps up."

So that's how Jamie ended up with the bank. He walked in and told the terrified tellers, "We're doing everything exactly as before—except we're not."

Good Cop gave Robert a police escort home—but Bad Cop was just itching to feed him a concrete sandwich.++



© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.