Rough Trade

was Beau who had been originally approached with the photos I would not have put it past him to use them as a tool for keeping Jeff in line.
    No wonder Jeff had been desperate for the cops to not see these, I thought to myself quickly, sliding them back into their envelope and locking them back up in the box. He’d said Chrissy didn’t even know what was there. No doubt someone had tried a spot of blackmail. I wondered who.
     
    There was no pretense in Gus Wallenberg’s office that morning, no bonhomie. Just the banker behind the bunker of his desk, a small smile of self-satisfaction on his face.
    “I assume you have come to deliver a cashier’s check for $18 million,” he said, leaning back in his chair, enjoying himself.
    “I had hoped to bring it with me today,” I answered easily, “but you can understand that Jeffrey Rendell’s murder has interfered with the family’s ability to transact business.”
    “Unfortunately these personal issues are no concern of the bank,” pointed out Wallenberg. “I’m sure you understand that, barring full payment of the default amount, First Milwaukee has no choice but to put the Milwaukee Monarchs Corporation into receivership.”
    “I’m not sure that would be in the bank’s best interest,” I suggested.
    “If you can’t make good on the default, I’m afraid that our business is concluded.”
    I looked at my watch. “I believe your secretary should be receiving a fax copy of a commitment letter for the funds from the newest shareholder of the Monarchs organization. A hard copy will be arriving via Federal Express later this morning.”
    He picked up his phone and punched the number for an internal line. “Stella?” he barked into the receiver. “Is there a fax coming through for me?” He nodded and released the switch. A few seconds later a primly dressed woman delivered the faxes.
    “Paul Riskoff the real estate developer?” demanded Wallenberg, scanning the top sheet.
    “Yes. As you can see, Mr. Riskoff is prepared to pay $50 million for an as yet unspecified number of shares. That’s enough to cover the default, current payables, and a hefty contribution to renovating their existing stadium.”
    “I’m sorry, Ms. Millholland,” declared Wallenberg, not looking sorry at all, “but you and I both know that this piece of paper is worthless and your client is still in default.”
    “Jeffrey Rendell died last night,” I pointed out.
    “And in the wake of her husband’s death, Mrs. Rendell assumes the obligations of her husband’s estate. The identity of the noteholder in no way changes the contractual obligations of this bank.”
    “I think it drastically affects your exposure,” I pointed out.
    “According to which accounting principle?” demanded Wallenberg.
    “Oh, I’m not talking about anything you can put down in black and white on your balance sheet, but I guarantee you that if you call the Monarchs’ loan, this bank will take a hit on the bottom line so big that it will take you six months to stop gushing red ink.”
    “Are you threatening me?”
    “No. I’m merely pointing out what will happen should you elect to remain inflexible in this matter. First of all, I am prepared to see to it that Mrs. Rendell signs an agreement today with the Greater Los Angeles Stadium Commission, who will see to it that you receive your $18 million via wire transfer by the close of business today.”
    “Then the bank will be satisfied.”
    “Good. Because after that I’m getting on the phone to the producer of every single tabloid news show and I’m going to make sure that my attractive and highly sympathetic client not only parades her widowhood on television, but tells everyone who will listen to her that it was the actions of First Milwaukee that forced her to move the team. People will be standing in line to pull their money from the bank. When I’m done with them, they’ll see it as their civic duty. You’ll be lucky if you have six Christmas Club accounts by the end of the year.”
    “This is blackmail,” sputtered Wallenberg.
    “This is business,” I replied coldly. “Don’t you start turning all pathetic on me now. After all, you’re the one who decided that we were going to be ruthless.”
    “Just tell me how I’m supposed to know that this Riskoff guy is for real? What guarantee are you willing to give me that he is going to make good on this letter?”
    “How about a million dollars?” I suggested, pulling the