Warm Wuinter's Garden (25 page)

“That could screw us.”

“On getting FDIC? You bet.”

Neil continued, “If we want to get federal
insurance, our non-performing loans have to be under their cut
point. Right now, we’re okay. I went over everything. We’re
fine.”

“I would have guessed that. You’re a hell of
a loan officer.”

Neil wished that Kenyon would hold his
praise. It would make it less awkward later.

“But. Every day things stay closed, the worse
things will become. More of our loans will be in trouble. Technical
trouble, not real trouble. But the feds won’t care. They don’t care
if the money’s out there. They want to see it in here. The other
thing I see is payments from borrowers with accounts in banks that
are still open may slow, too.”

“How do you figure?”

“They may use that money to help out family.
You know the demographics. We’ve got just about the oldest
population of any state. Fixed incomes tend to chase higher
interest rates. Those institutions that paid the highest rates
could only do that by taking on more risk. Which means they’ll have
the weakest portfolios, which means they’ll be the last to
re-open.”

Kenyon interrupted, “If they ever do.”

“Right, if they ever do. If someone has to
choose between paying us and taking care of Mom or Pop, we’re going
to come out the loser.”

“We’re going to have to move fast on the FDIC
application. And then hope to God they process us fast. Let’s get
started.”

“We’ve already begun.”

“How so soon?”

Neil turned his hands up in supplication.
“I’d sent for the application forms last fall. Remember when I
asked you about FDIC and you said no? I went ahead and did it then.
I just wanted to see what the process was.”

Kenyon took his time deciding whether he was
angry that Neil had done an end run on him or grateful.

“If I’d listened then, we could have saved
our ass. The bank wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Me neither.”

From the look on his face it was obvious that
Kenyon didn’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

“My daughter Lise’s boyfriend, Brad, remember
me telling you about him, he got me thinking about things. The more
I thought about it, the more dangerous the situation seemed. I
imagine you’re no different than I am. I can remember my parents
talking about the problems in the Depression when the banks failed.
It started to look like we were getting ourselves in the same
situation. The only difference around here was that the speculation
was on land rather than stocks. I know so many of the bankers
around the state. That didn’t give me much comfort. You and I
talked a couple of times about RISDIC. You said everything was
going to be okay. I had a hard time believing that, but I didn’t
want to be disloyal.”

Kenyon drummed the tip of his pen into his
hand.

“You were right. I was wrong. I already said
that. We’re got a lot to do. What’s your point?”

“With Bett being sick, as you might imagine,
we’ve had some unusual expenses. She says she’s been good lately,
but I’m not so sure. I’d like to believe that she’ll be fine, but
I’ve trained myself to be conservative. I have to think about the
bad things that could happen and be prepared for them.”

“Fine, Neil, that’s fine, but what’s it got
to do with anything? C’mon. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Kenyon, you may not want me to be the one
doing it.”

Kenyon started to say something, but Neil
kept going.

“I took a bunch, almost all of my money out
of here. Last week. Just after you left.”

Kenyon laughed.

“Good for you, Neil. You’re smarter than your
boss. I may be living on my credit cards for awhile. You were
worried that I’d be mad because you took money out, because you
were disloyal to my bank? Don’t be foolish. Don’t even think about
it.”

Kenyon laughed again.

Neil said, “I was worried about that when I
did it. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it, and I didn’t like the
feeling that I was sneaking around after you were gone.”

“Well, it’s okay.”

“Now, I’m worried about something else. The
papers and, from what I’ve been told, the radio talk shows have had
a lot of discussion about insiders using their connections and
information to get their money out before RISDIC failed. I’m afraid
that if the word gets out about my withdrawals people will think
that that’s what I did. My reputation and the bank’s both could be
harmed.”

Kenyon thought for a moment before he
responded.

“I can see your point, but I don’t think
you’ll have much of a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Well, mainly, because my money stayed in the
bank. I’m much more of an insider than you are. Hell, you’re not
even native. Who’s going to do you a favor? At first glance, it
might look strange, but a minute’s reflection would have to lead
anyone half-way in the know to the conclusion that your withdrawals
were coincidental.”

Neil nodded trying to reassure himself that
Kenyon was right. He wanted to ask Kenyon whether anyone would be
calm enough to take that minute for reflection, but he decided he
was better off just assuming that Kenyon was right.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Let me make a few phone calls and then
I’ll be down to help with that application. If we really push and
use every chit we’ve ever earned we might be able to get a quick
answer from FDIC and get this operation going again. Two hundred
years and as far as I know, this is the first time we’ve closed. My
ancestors will be shooting lightning bolts at my ass pretty soon if
we don’t get this resolved. That I don’t need. Not with Cammie
sitting down in West Palm loading up because I abandoned her to
come back here.”

“Brad told me that in the past, in bad
situations, the FDIC has worked hard to expedite applications.”

“Good. Let’s hit it. Let’s get the damn doors
open again. The sooner we do, the sooner I can get my hands on some
money and the less apt I’ll be to have to have my hand out for some
of yours.”

Kenyon Hall laughed. Neil tried to join him,
but only a smile would come. The sound was stuck at the bottom of
his throat.

“Petey Sweetie, come here, come see what your
president’s done.”

With his head sticking through the half-open
door, Raoul motioned Peter to join him in the waiter’s dressing
room. Peter gave a final stir to the last of the sauces in the
steam-table before limping toward the end of the kitchen.

The Retreat’s owner wished that he was
somewhere else. The dining room was almost empty. The first two
weeks of January had been the slowest that he could ever
remember.

The swinging door was pushed open and Raoul
poked his head outside for a second time.

“Petey, sweetie, ppwease huwwy,” he said in
an exaggerated lisp.

“What’s the matter?”

“Your president. Bush the tall tush. Cap’n.
Wimp. Look. He’s bombing Sodom Insane.”

“What?”

“Look. Live from Baghdad.”

Peter’s stomach dropped so fast that he
freefell to the nearest of the scarred benches that lined the
graffiti-friezed walls of the staff room. White lights, like
strands of pearls, skittered across the small screen of the staff
television. Raoul swept his arm toward the TV as if he were
offering a good table to a favored customer.

“Your tax dollars hard at work.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Same prayer, well, maybe substitute Allah,
they’re probably saying there.”

“Bob, please, be quiet.”

Raoul went to the set and turned up the
volume then returned to stand next to Peter. He wanted to say
something apologetic to Peter, but he felt too embarrassed to do
so. When monumental events occurred, good or bad—learning that a
friend had received a large Jackson Pollock/Lee Krassner grant,
being told that a former lover had been diagnosed with AIDs—Raoul
always responded with very quick, very cynical humor. Fast and
funny. That’s what he tried to be. But, sometimes he knew he went
too fast. In the excitement of the news of the American invasion of
Iraq, Raoul had forgotten Peter and Viet Nam. He wondered what was
going on in Peter’s head as he stared so fixedly at the strings of
lights which danced behind the head of a very attractive
reporter.

“Stay here, Peter. I’ll just check the dining
room. Do you want anything?”

From Bob’s inflection Peter knew that he had
been asked a question; however he had no idea what it was.

“Sure, whatever you think.”

After the maitre d’ came back to report that
a table of six had just been seated, Peter moved the television
into the kitchen. As he cooked, he watched. Later, at home, he
watched through the night. In the morning, on his way to the
restaurant, he made a detour to buy a six-inch rechargeable color
television. He installed it on the shelf over the stoves. When he
went to his office to do ordering, scheduling and the books, he
took the television with him.

In the days that followed the American
invasion, as first heated and, then, enthusiastic discussions about
the war took place among the waiters, dishwasher, and prep cooks,
Peter made no comments. When asked his opinion of SCUD missiles
landing in Israel, or B-2 bombing raids on the Republican Guard, or
the strategic importance of the oil spills, or the wide-spread
display of yellow ribbons in support of the troops, or whether he
had ever been under friendly fire, or whether tanks were much used
in Viet Nam, or whether an all-volunteer army made sense, he would
shrug his shoulders. His blank look and frequent shrugs made it
seem as if he could no longer understand the war language—long
familiar to him—that was being so eagerly acquired and used by all
the civilians around him. He would shrug and turn his eyes back to
the screen. When a seventeen year old dishwasher asked Peter if he
could put a large yellow bow on the front door of The Retreat,
Peter remained motionless for a long time before nodding his head
yes.

* * *

“Hey, meu amigo, como vai?”

At the sound Peter drew himself deeper inside
his skin. When he turned from the stove he avoided looking into
Gaby’s eyes.

“Hi. You startled me. It’s been a long time
since I’ve heard that voice in here.”

“Long, long time.”

“You okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine.”

Gaby leaned over the counter and began to
sniff at each of the battered stainless steel sauce containers
sitting in the bain-marie.

“Smells good.”

“Just the same old stuff.”

“It was always pretty good stuff.”

“Fewer people seem to think that.”

“It’s tough all over. It really has been
terrible.”

As he usually did with someone when he didn’t
know what else to do, Peter asked, “Are you hungry?”

Gaby laughed and Peter was forced to look
away from, to him, her startling warmth and beauty. Since she had
left him, the days had felt so unending that he was surprised all
the hours of enduring hadn’t diminished his feelings for her.

“Well, it’s not been that terrible. Food and
shelter are still doable. Thanks, in part, to you. I can guess how
hard it’s been. I’m very grateful about how good you’ve been with
the boys’ support.”

Peter’s intended a rueful smile but guessed
that it looked like a grimace.

“Can you imagine if I missed a payment and
Dilly or Nita found out?”

“I think that even if Dilly and Nita weren’t
around you’d still be good about it.”

“Mom’s always said, ‘First things
first.’”

“Yeah? Well, lots of guys must have had
different kinds of moms. I can’t believe how many of my friends get
stiffed by their ex’s.”

“Duty.”

“Yeah, duty. We’ve been hearing a lot about
that.”

Gaby gestured toward the television set that
was playing behind Pete’s head. Peter turned toward the screen and
then back to Gaby without saying anything.

“The boys say that you’ve been watching that
a lot.”

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

“Me along with a couple of hundred million
other people.”

“What d’ya think? Is the ground war
close?”

“Are the boys okay?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. They’re home. I came up
to see Dina and I just thought I’d drop by.”

“It’s nice to see you. How has work
been?”

“It’s been bad. But enough. I mean I think
we’ll hang on. You can only put off car repairs for so long. And as
poor as people get, most of them can’t really do much more for
themselves than change their oil.”

“That’s me.”

“Me, too, although I’m getting where I can
talk a good game. It’s funny. People call and tell me what their
car is doing and I’m getting now so that I can kind of diagnose it
over the phone. ‘Sounds like a timing chain, Mr. Petri. Better
bring it in right away.’ Now, I don’t know what a timing chain does
or where one goes, but I know the symptoms of a bad one, know what
the box of a new one looks like, what it costs, and how long it
should take to put it in.”

Peter aimed a small smile to a neutral zone
just off to the right side of Gaby’s face.

“You should get them to change your
title.”

“From scheduler to what?”

“Automotive consultant.”

“Knowing without doing.”

“That’s the business.”

“Not like restaurants.”

Peter grunted, “Doing without knowing.”

“Not you. I didn’t mean that. But lots of
others. A dentist or a lawyer likes steak so he figures he’s
qualified to open a restaurant.”

“You’d think that someone with a grad school
education would be brighter than that.”

You
might think that. I wouldn’t. I
see what they know about cars.”

“Well, if bright guys don’t know enough to
stay clear of restaurants, what hope does that leave for the rest
of us?”