and then the snap of a cigarette lighter. There was a pause and then a deep exhale. “Okay, I’m ready, go ahead.”
“That’s a bad habit, you need to quit.”
“Mind your own business.”
Vito laughed nervously, “Barnes just called and said Alex may be turning up the heat. Barnes says he’s not happy.”
“About what?”
“The subprime mortgages Midwest has been originating as a result of that meeting last summer.”
“Oh that meeting when Alex was in Europe. I thought Alex was brought up to speed about that.”
“I guess not.”
“Hmm…I’ll bet he is mad.”
“Alex is one tenacious son-of-a-bitch. He’s not going to take this lying down.”
“What can I do about it, Vito?”
Vito opened a cabinet door and pulled out a bottle of Seagram’s. He splashed the brownish liquid into a small glass and dumped it in his mouth.
“Well…un nothing I guess, I just thought you might know something.”
“Well I don’t. You’re on your own on this one, buddy.”
“Do me a favor will ya?”
“I’ll try.”
“Let me know if you hear anything.”
“Oh no!” There was a deep exhale, the ashtray rattled.
“What’s the matter?” Vito asked.
“The Pacers lost by fifteen.”
“You’re hopeless,”
“Goodnight Vito.”
“Goodnight.”
Chapter 6
Louie slapped frantically at the screaming radio. He cursed the loud, obnoxious sound that he heard every morning, but it was the only sound that was loud enough to wake him. It was the third slapping and the one that usually got him going. He peeked over the covers and looked around the room, as if somebody might be watching him. Then he yanked his blankets back, exposing his rotund torso to the empty room. Rolling to the edge of the bed, he ran his hands through the thinning gray strands on his balding skull, yawned loudly and pushed his arms to the ceiling.
After what seemed an eternity of just sitting and staring into space, he stumbled into the bathroom, passing gas along the way. Once inside the small room, he turned the water on to just the right temperature, slipped off his baggy pajamas, tossed them onto the nearby hamper and stepped into the shower. A guttural rendition of the old favorite “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” soon filled the air. Italian by descent, his mom was part Irish and taught him the song as a boy and he loved it. No other song ever came to his mind in the shower.
After several minutes of butchering his mom’s favorite tune, he quickly punched the shower off, pushed the plastic shower curtain back and groped frantically for any sign of a towel on the nearby rack. Coming up empty, his arms collapsed around his shivering, naked body as he hurried over and snatched the only remaining bath towel from the linen closet. He wiped himself dry, draped the towel around his paunchy midsection and prepared to shave.
He grimaced as he looked at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror and pushed his thinning gray hair off his forehead. He snatched his old Norelco from its corroded charger on the counter and began pushing it around his cherub face, missing several spots in the poorly lighted room. He would shave off the little colonies of hair he missed later in his office with an old razor he kept in his desk just for that very reason.
After shaving, he slipped into his boxer shorts, lifted a crinkled blue dress shirt from the small bedroom closet, pushed up the collar, grabbed the obligatory red tie from the tie rack, created a crooked half Windsor knot and pulled it tight. Next, he lifted yesterday’s gray slacks from a nearby door knob and pulled them on. He slipped on a pair of stretch socks and his brown loafers and hurried to the kitchen.
Outside, he could hear the rush hour traffic rumbling past. He shot a glance at his watch. It was a little after 7:30 and with a twenty minute commute to work, he had little time to spare. This usually meant a strawberry pop tart, his breakfast of choice each day. Louie, a creature of habit, liked to keep things as simple as possible.
A moment later, with pop tart in hand, he rushed to his carport and jumped into his 1998 red Ford pick-up. After backing carefully onto the always busy West Armitage Street, he headed east toward the nearby Kennedy Expressway. The old Ford jerked as he pressed hard on the accelerator. His destination was Midwest Consolidated Bank, on the corner of Harlem and West Fullerton in the Elmwood Park district on Chicago’s West Side. Only a ten minute drive in low traffic, in the morning rush hour it became twenty or twenty-five.
This had been Louis “Louie” Campano’s daily ritual for over forty years. He took over Campano Federal Savings Bank back in 1979 from his retiring father. His father had opened the office in 1929 with a five hundred dollar loan from a friend. Through hard work and diligence, Louie’s father had built up the assets to more than two hundred million when he turned it over to his son. Louie, very popular in the predominantly Italian community, had increased the size of the savings bank to nearly five hundred million dollars when his board decided in 2000, much to his objection, to sell the bank to Midwest Consolidated. Still single, the job at the bank was Louie’s life—a life that had become much more difficult since the merger with Midwest.
The large metal sign ahead read ‘Reserved for President,” as the dusty truck jerked to a stop. Louie looked in the rear view mirror, removed his glasses and pawed away some pesky eye-puck before exiting his modest vehicle. He then hurried into the back door of the bank and ducked down the back hall.
The main lobby of the bank was a beehive of activity, with a small army of tellers gabbing with one another as they carefully counted their cash allotments for the day. In the many offices near the teller area, loan officers were busy reviewing files and discussing complicated issues with the secretaries before the doors opened at eight o’clock.
Louie glanced at the busy scene and then ducked into his dimly lit office near the back door. His secretary, Ava, always turned on the light on his desk when she arrived at 7:00 sharp. Later, she would return and lay hand-written notes on his desk concerning his day’s activities. The worn leather chair creaked as Louie’s large frame fell in it. He reached forward for the notes and began reading them. Soon a scowl appeared on his face. “Bad day,” he murmured to himself, as the always dependable Ava, stepped in his office.
“Good morning, Mr. Campano.”
“What’s good about it?” the usually congenial president groused.
“I know, Louie—Jack Montrose.” A trusted confidant for over thirty years, Ava could get away with calling her boss Louie after her initial salutation in the morning. Louie didn’t mind—she was a great employee and a true friend and she never addressed him that way outside his office.
“More file maintenance I guess.”
Ava shook her head.
Jack Montrose, an old friend of Barnes, had taken over as the main bank’s controller a few months after the merger was completed in 2000. Louie had lobbied to keep his local controller, Paul Rizzo, a trusted associate for over forty years, as his controller in Elmwood Park. But for some unknown reason, Rizzo suddenly resigned two weeks later. It was one of the first indicators for Louie about the nature of bank take-overs. All the promises of ‘working together’ and ‘mutual respect’ were soon forgotten as Midwest began to sink its talons deeper into the bowels of his beloved bank.
Now, it was ten years later, and Louie had very little say about the day to day operations of his bank, except in the area of employee relations and small personal loans. It was demoralizing and frustrating and he hated it. And to make matters