Shake the Trees (3 page)

He looked up at Ellen.  Her tone had startled him.  It was so - so matter of fact.  Somehow he sensed she already knew the answer.  He began to rearrange the crumbs on the tablecloth.

“No.  Natural causes.  My father died of a heart attack.  My mother had breast cancer.  It was only a few years ago.”

“I’m so sorry, Sam.  Look, why don’t you borrow that dusty bottle of cognac from your friend behind the bar while I use the restroom.  I’ll meet you outside in my car for a nightcap.”

Ellen laid a one hundred dollar bill on the table and headed toward the rear of the dining room.

“Ellen, I intended to pay the bill tonight.”

“Not tonight, Sam.”

Sam wedged himself into the seat of the Porsche while holding the bottle of cognac in one hand and two plastic cups in the other.  Before he had made himself comfortable, Ellen had unzipped his fly.  Even if he had the willpower to resist, he probably couldn’t have reacted quickly enough.  While his body had fully responded, his brain was still trying to wrap itself around what was happening.  Every muscle in his body was tensed and he hadn’t taken a breath since he sat down.  Ellen lifted her head up even with his, and brushed the hair away from her face.

“Relax, Sam.”

He leaned back in the seat and exhaled.  The whole episode was over in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

“I’m going to have to take a rain check on that nightcap, Sam.  I have to get back to Albuquerque tonight.”

Ellen’s voice was low and sounded husky and a little raw.  Sam was worried his would crack like it did when he was thirteen and going through puberty.  He cleared his throat. 

“You do?”

“I’m sorry, I do.”  She kissed him long and hard.  “I have to go, Sam.”

He transferred the plastic cups to the same hand as the bottle of cognac, opened the door, and climbed out of the low-slung vehicle.  His movements were mechanical as he bent down and wordlessly waited.

Ellen leaned over toward the open passenger window and nodded in the direction of the restaurant.  “I want to put a trophy on my wall, Sam.  I’ll call you.”

“Well, I guess...”

“I need to go, Sam.”

He felt the sting of gravel hitting his shins and jumped back.  The rear tires of the Porsche chirped as they made contact with the pavement.  As the taillights disappeared in the distance, Sam wiped his lips and mouth on his shirtsleeve and looked down at the bottle of cognac and his open fly.  He turned and noticed an old cowboy sitting at the bar next to the grease-smeared window.  The weathered man raised his shot glass of whiskey and nodded.

Sam nodded back.

CHAPTER 2

Dora Hufstedtler held her head in her hands as she stared down at the Formica top of her kitchen table.  The imitation walnut surface was worn and dull.  Dora was 81 years old.  She was slightly overweight or worse, depending on whether you used the old chart or the new one, and had high blood pressure.  Otherwise, she was healthy.  And she was lonely.  Even worse than the loneliness was the worry.

She finally stood up and carried her teacup to the sink, and then shuffled into the living room to turn on the big fan in the window.  It was only 9 a.m. and already 87 degrees outside.  August in Florida was penance for January in Florida.  She and Frank had quit using the air conditioner the summer before.  The monthly utility bill was just too high.  So was the homeowner’s insurance premium, so they dropped the coverage.  The agent told them they were crazy, but Frank said they didn’t have a mortgage and no one could make them keep the insurance.  And now Frank was gone and things were even worse. 

Frank Hufstedtler was a WWII veteran who had kept the trucks, jeeps, and tanks of Patton’s army in good running order as it made its way across France and Germany in 1944 and 1945.  He’d worked for an auto parts manufacturer in Detroit for 33 years and retired with a pension and money in the bank.  He and Dora moved to Florida and bought a two-bedroom one-bath house in Venice that was only three blocks from the beach.  They joined a country club and Frank learned to golf.  Every Saturday night they ate dinner and danced at the club.  Frank and Dora Hufstedtler were living the middle-class American dream.

The dream had ended five years earlier.  The letter said Prime Motor Parts was “sinking under an unbearable load of legacy costs and needed to become leaner in order to meet the challenges of a new and more competitive environment”.  The pension was unfunded; in other words, their monthly check was paid out of the company’s current operating revenues. With the wave of a magic legal wand, the company’s obligations were discharged in bankruptcy and the checks stopped.

The memorial service had taken place three weeks earlier at the Lutheran Church on the same road as their old club.  Dora had Frank cremated because those were his wishes.  Frank Jr., their son, had been dead for more than thirty years - killed in Vietnam.  Their daughter and only surviving child attended the service but could only stay for a couple of days.  She scheduled the appointments at her husband’s busy chiropractic practice in California, and he was going crazy without her.  The grandkids were in high school and college and had such busy lives.  Dora understood why they couldn’t get away.

Dora sat back down at the kitchen table and pulled the letter from the Social Security Administration out of her apron pocket.  Frank’s benefits would terminate, of course, because he was deceased, but her benefits would increase as his surviving widow.  The net result was three hundred dollars less to pay the bills each month.  The groceries would cost a little less and she could deduct the costs of Frank’s medication from the budget she kept in her head.  Still, one really couldn’t live on that much less than two.  She had told her daughter everything was fine, and she would only call her as a last resort.  Frank always said that they raised their daughter to be independent and stand on her own two feet, and she could expect her parents to do the same.

Dora was still deep in thought when the ringing doorbell startled her.  Not very many people came to see her, and when they did they usually knocked.  She slowly got up from the table, fixed her hair and brushed the wrinkles out of her apron.  Only then did she begin to slowly walk toward the front door.

As she peered between the frosted bamboo stalks that covered the narrow window next to the door, Dora saw a trim young man in his mid to late twenties.  He wore a suit and tie and his blond hair was closely cropped with a part on the left.  None of that spiky stuff Dora had seen on TV. 

“Oh shit,” Dora said out loud.  “One of those god-damned Mormon boys.”  She opened the door and scanned the yard for the young man’s partner and the bicycles.   

“Good morning, ma’am, my name is Brent Smith.  I represent American Senior Security.”  

“You mean Social Security?”

“No, ma’am,” Brent smiled.  “American Senior Security is a private company.  Mrs. Brody on the next street over gave me your name, ma’am.”

“Oh!  How is the dear doing? I know she has had a terribly rough time of it since Joe passed.  He just did everything for her.”

“Oh yes, I know, ma’am.  I’ve been checking in on her every week.  She has been having a rough time, but she’s made some decisions recently and is feeling much better.”

Dora gave the young man a quizzical look.  “Are you her grandson?”

“Oh no, ma’am,” Brent smiled.  “Mrs. Brody is my client.”

The young man readjusted his facial features into a more serious pose and continued speaking.  “Ma’am, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss and to give you these.”  Brent then produced a small bouquet of flowers that looked a few days past their prime.

Dora could feel the tears beginning to well.  She reached for the old-fashioned lock on the screen door and worked it loose.

“Oh, my.  I don’t know what to say.  Thank you.  Where are my manners?  Please come in and have a seat while I put these in some water.”

“Thank you, ma’am.  Are you sure you’re not too busy?”

“Oh, heavens no.  Do you like tea?”

“So I can stay in my house as long as I want to?”

“Absolutely!  You have the right to stay here for as long as you want.  You do have to continue paying the property taxes and insurance until you relocate to one of our elder resorts, at which time American Senior Security takes title to your home.  You see, we wrap the reverse mortgage payments around a pre-paid long-term care policy.  It’s the most innovative product on the market today.”

“Frank and I had a long-term care policy for a while, but it was too expensive.  Anyway, I don’t want to live in a nursing home.  I like my house.”

Brent laughed.  “Trust me; our elder resorts aren’t nursing homes. Not in any sense of the word.  American Senior Security has contracted with the finest and most luxurious assisted living facilities in the State of Florida.  In fact, we have just finished negotiating a relationship with a facility only a few miles from here.  You may have heard of it - The Palms Gracious Living Retreat.”

“Heavens sake.  I can’t afford to live there.”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but you can.  I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve researched the public records.  You and your husband purchased your home for only $47,000, and it’s worth several times that now.  Since you don’t have a mortgage, you’ve accumulated a substantial amount of equity.  So much so that you will be entitled to a monthly stipend even after deducting the cost of the long term care policy from your monthly reverse mortgage payment.”

“What does that mean?”

“You get to live at The Palms and we send you money each month.  For the rest of your life.”

“Well, I just don’t know.”

Brent smiled.  “We don’t want you to make a decision today, Mrs. Hufstedtler.  We think it’s important that you tour one of our elder resorts first.  And we would like you to bring someone with you whose opinion you value.  Would you like to visit The Palms with me next week?”

“Yes!  I’ve always wanted to see that place.  My daughter lives in California.  Can I bring my friend Helen?”

“Absolutely.  And, well…” Brent leaned forward and lowered his voice.  “I’m not supposed to reveal any private information, but I don’t think she would mind.  Mrs. Brody will be moving there next month.”

After Brent left, Dora shuffled a little more quickly than she had in weeks as she made her way to the telephone attached to the wall in the kitchen.  She couldn’t wait to call Helen.  This product or whatever Brent called it might just solve all of her problems.  The whole thing seemed too good to be true.

CHAPTER 3

James Marcus “Marc” Mason, IV, did the “alpha dog” walk across the lobby of American Senior Security, Incorporated.  This was now his company; he was President and Chief Executive Officer.  He’d patterned his stride after another top dog - the big dog in the Oval Office.  He’d even briefly considered calling himself “M”.  Only thirty-five years old, single, and in his prime.  At the top of his game.  He winked at the nineteen-year-old receptionist speaking into her headset, and turned down the hall leading to his huge corner office.

Marc Mason had adopted what he considered a carefree yet suave style of appearance.  Miami Vice updated for the new millennium.  His hair was cut short but with just enough length to look disheveled.  He usually allowed himself one or two days of beard growth.  Italian made loafers, a snakeskin belt, and a silky pullover knit shirt completed the look.  If he’d inherited his father’s tall and lean physique, it might have worked. 

His success had surprised nearly everyone.  He had created a vibrant new company out of a dinosaur that peddled over-priced term life insurance door-to-door to the underprivileged and the illiterate.  The fat was cut.  Employees that didn’t fit the new mold were fired. New employees were hired.  The most cutting-edge technology was purchased.  And it was all organized into four separate divisions. 

The Data Mining Division was a high tech marvel of efficiency and high speed computing.  It blazed through thousands of pages of public records and newspaper obituaries and collated the relevant information to identify the most motivated prospects.  That information instantly appeared on the monitors of the Marketing and Sales Division.  The Operations Division handled the routine day-to-day details of reverse mortgage payments, real estate transactions and sales, and contractual arrangements with assisted living facilities.  All of it was highly automated to eliminate expensive personnel.  The Finance and Investments Division put the hugely positive cash flow to work.

The Finance and Investments Division was essentially a highly leveraged hedge fund investing in risky but potentially very lucrative sectors.  Assets with market momentum.  Commodities including oil and gas, minerals and metals, and others.  Real estate in hot markets.  Equities in China, India and other developing countries.

American Senior Security was a closely held private corporation.  Its shares were not publicly traded or listed on any exchange.  Therefore, no pesky filings with the Securities and Exchange Commission were required.  The shares were not owned by a private individual, however, but by another privately owned company.  A holding company registered in the Cayman Islands.    

Certain state statutes and regulations did apply even to privately held insurance companies like American Senior Security, however.  Insurance companies were, for the most part, limited to stodgy and conservative investments.  After all, the bulk of their funds were essentially being held in trust for the benefit of the policyholders.  The purpose of these one hundred year old laws was simply to insure that the money would be there to pay the eventual claims. 

But American Senior Security was a new breed.  A hybrid - an insurance company mated with a financial services company.  Neither fish nor fowl.  The ambiguity allowed the legal department to take the position that it was exempt from these limitations.  It didn’t matter that it was almost certainly incorrect - with appeals the issue would take years to be resolved.  In the meantime, there was a fortune to be made.

Marc entered his office and strode over to the floor to ceiling windows.  Tampa Bay was a brilliant blue and cars scurried across the distant causeway. He enjoyed looking down on the rest of the world.  All it took was money.  And money brought power.  Money and power.  It’s what he always wanted.  It’s all that mattered.  Everything else was its byproduct. 

He wondered what his mother thought of him now.  She had always wanted money and power, but not for its own sake.  She wanted it for the envy it induced in others.  Screw everyone else.  Marc Mason thought his mother was pitiful, and his sisters as well.  They had both married morons and were busy spitting out whining, sniveling brats in a vain attempt to fill the empty holes in their pitiful lives.  And then there was his father.  When it came to pitiful, James Marcus Mason, III, took the cake.

Marc Mason knew his father didn’t want money and power.  He wanted respect.  Respect of his wisdom.  Respect of his integrity.  Respect of his character.  He was pitiful and an idiot.  Now his father’s friends and associates wanted to invest.  They wanted to get on the “M” train.  And yes, he would take their money.