Deadly Game. R. B. Conroy

can be an ugly thing, Alex, and you’re right, these boys have been surprisingly active the past couple of years. I am going to request the necessary documentation on all of Vito’s branch applications just to be sure they’re up to snuff. Those approvals happened awfully fast. At the same time, I’ll request random photo copies of several of their mortgage files to be sure they are following the guidelines set by the local managers. Something tells me that these guidelines have never been put into writing. Also, I want a full accounting of all transactions by both First Financial and O’Brien and Son that involved Midwest, including the complete money trail. I want to know who got paid for doing what and when. In the meantime, if you don’t mind, I will ask your outside auditors, Dulin and Dulin, to do an audit on Louie’s office. Particularly in regard to all the file maintenance Montrose has been doing lately. If we find a rat in the woodshed, I’ll move in at a moment’s notice; I promise you that.”

      Alex leaned back, sighed and shook his head. “It’s about time you came to life, I was beginning to wonder. Maybe I’ll leave you on retainer for a little while after all.”

      Ted shook his head, “On retainer for a while my ass! I’m the best attorney in town and you know it.”

      A calmer Alex grinned.

      The ice rattled as Strom lifted his water glass toward the center of the table. “We have some real challenges in front of us, fellas. Let’s all work together and get to the bottom of this thing.”

      The men touched glasses and smiled warmly at one another. The conversation soon shifted to more personal topics. All sense of divisiveness quickly vaporized as the close friends reminisced about silly pranks on the golf course and other special times together.

      “Grubs up!” The smell of minestrone filled the air as the brusque waitress arrived and banged the long plates on the table. “Enjoy fellas, and please don’t slobber on yourselves.” Libby grinned as the men roared their approval.

      Chapter 8

      The Boston College fight song resonated through the sunlit lounge at Meridian Hills Country Club.

      “Another Scotch, Willie.”

      “Sure thing. Mr. O’Brien, if you promise to turn that thing off. I’m a Notre Dame fan.”

      Barnes coughed up a hoarse laugh as he lifted his cell phone from his vest pocket, and hurriedly scanned the screen.

      “Yes Vito, what is it?’

      The familiar voice blared from the phone. “What the hell is Alex up to? He’s got me real nervous all of a sudden.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “Blue and Gates sent me a memo today. Said they want copies of all my branch applications for the past three years. They also asked for copies of all my transactions with Midwest Consolidated over the same period. This stuff is making me real nervous Barnes.”

      Barnes yanked the soggy cigar from between his teeth and snuffed it out in a nearby ashtray. “He can’t request information on your branches—he’s not your attorney. He works for Midwest.” Barnes coughed and waved the drifting cigar smoke away from his face.

      “You’re wrong about that one. I called my attorney, Shawn O’Brien. Know him? He says that according to new regulations passed by congress last May and I quote, ‘Any and all agencies providing for profit services to a federally chartered lending institution shall provide to such institution, upon request, any and all information pertaining to said transactions. Failure to do so will be punishable by blah, blah, blah,”

      “Hmmm…..they’re always changing those damned regulations.” Barnes downed the Scotch and banged it on the bar.

      “What if he finds out about….?”

      Barnes quickly interrupted, “He won’t. They’re just checking on the mortgage backed securities and bonds we’ve been selling. Alex is embarrassed that so much happened under his watch, so he’s checking everything out.” Barnes could hear street noises on the other end of the line. “Are you downtown Vito?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Well, then close your damned window. It’s hard to hear you over all the traffic noise.”

      “Okay, okay.”

      “That’s better. Now listen to me Vito, don’t call Shawn any more about this. I know you usually work with him, but we better leave him out of things at this point. Just call me if you have any questions.”

      “Okay Barnes, but I’m nervous about those branch applications. All seven were approved in less than a week. It usually takes months or even years just to get a hearing and then you have to beg, borrow, and steal to get an approval. President Moretti’s pal at the SEC did a hell of a job ramming them through. To get seven branch applications approved that quickly never hap-pens unless you have inside help. And Blue is a frickin’ expert on such matters. If he figures out what we’ve been up to, he’ll dig deeper into our relationship with Moretti and then we’ll really be in deep shit.”

      “Moretti can handle Blue.”

      Barnes slid off the bar stool, walked over and looked out the large window fronting the golf course. He was now safely out of earshot of Willie and several tables of poker players that dotted the elegant lounge.

      “Listen Vito, let’s just hold tight and see what develops here. This new administration likes to play Chicago style politics; they can get plenty rough if necessary. Alex will be taking on the whole Federal Government if he pushes too hard. He’ll snoop around for awhile and try to make us uncomfortable, but I don’t think he will press too hard right now. I’m sure he suspects that we have ties to the Moretti camp, but when push comes to shove, he’ll back off.”

      “Let’s hope so, Barnes. We wouldn’t look good in prison stripes!”

      “Calm down, Vito. Montrose knows what he’s doing. I gotta run, I have a 1:30 tee time. Keep in touch, Vito, and let me know anything and everything you hear.” He turned and hurried toward the members’ locker room at Meridian Hills Country Club.

      “Okay, but I’m warnin’ you, Barnes, if….”

      Barnes stopped quickly and pulled the phone tight to his ear. He interrupted his tempestuous friend, “Now you listen to me, Vito. You were nothing but a small time operator with a bad paper trail out of Chicago when I met you. Now you’re a rich man. If we hadn’t helped Moretti with those donations, you’d still be living in a one bedroom condo in downtown Indy. Don’t you ever threaten me again! Do you understand?”

      Always intimated by Barnes, Vito was silent.

      Barnes clicked his phone shut without saying good-bye and hurried into the locker room to change for his golf game with Bill Worthem, a frequent golfing companion and the head of the Democratic Party in Marion County.

      Barnes threatening outburst toward Vito was not uncommon. A product of an Irish ghetto in the heart of the mean streets of Boston, he could play plenty rough when necessary. Brilliant as a child, he never had much of an affinity for the books, choosing instead to join an Irish gang at age fourteen. Fearless, and always aching for a fight, he soon became the gang’s leader. He remained leader until he was arrested on an assault and battery charge at age eighteen. The charge was the result of a brutal beating by Barnes and two other boys of a rival Irish gang member over a turf war on the Southside. His fellow gang members were eventually convicted on felony charges and sentenced to two years for assault and battery with intent to inflict bodily injury.

      But lucky for Barnes, his father stepped in. Barnes’ father ran a popular meat market in downtown Boston and was well connected politically. He provided young Barnes with a good attorney, and after a brief hearing, he was able to get his sentence reduced to just six months. The judge in the case, smitten by the boy’s charm and good looks, had asked for the boy’s school records before final sentencing. Shocked by his 144 IQ and almost perfect SAT’s, the judge