I walk over to the mailbag, turn it upside down on the mail desk and remove my sixteen shameful letters from the pile. Then I put the remaining letters back in the mail bag and look around the room. All eyes are studying me, just as they were on Friday when Oglethorpe threatened to can me. Only this time there's a nebbish curiosity in the air. I see Hilda pointing at her wrist watch, and I break into a loud song, effectively drowning out the Muzak. I'm performing both parts of Richard Wagner's Tannhauser, the Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd version:
" Oh, Bwoonhiwda you're so wuuuvwy!"
" Yes I know it, I can't heeelllp it!"
" Oh, Bwoonhiwda be my wuv!"
" For I wuuuuvvvvv youuuuuuu!"
I bow and hold my hands high in the air, expecting great applause.
The silence is deafening.
All faces turn to Hilda, whose mouth is hanging open like the door of a cargo plane. Suddenly she spins around, grabs her pen, and begins writing furiously in her notebook.
"Write all you want, you dreary shrew," I say, aware there are no customers on the floor. "But when you've completed your thought, write this down in your stupid journal and shove it up your big fat ass: I just landed the biggest account this bank has ever had!"
All afternoon I refuse to answer questions, saying only, "At nine o'clock tomorrow morning, you'll see. I'm going to own this bank!"
That evening, as I pull into my driveway, I see Lissie standing outside the front door holding an envelope in her hand. I stop and get out, wondering if it's a late payment notice. She runs to me and throws her arms around my neck.
"Lissie, what on earth?"
"I can't believe you did this for me!" she says.
"What?"
"Nothing says apology like front row seats to the Springsteen concert! How in the world did you manage this?"
My mind is going a hundred miles an hour. "Where did you get those?"
"The same way you sent them, my darling. Zip express! God, I could just eat you up!"
And a few minutes later, she did.
Chapter 10
"You'd better get going, rock star," Lissie says. "You're going to be late."
"No worries. I'm bulletproof."
It's Tuesday morning and I can't believe how fast my luck has changed. In an hour I'll be sitting with Chelsea Blankenship and her business associate, Emma Glendenning, who are applying for a million dollar line of credit for their new business. I don't know any of the details yet, but by the time I complete the loan app it will be a sure thing. Although Oglethorpe is demanding three million in new loans, Whitney Blankenship has promised to run all future Chelsea loans through me, which means my position at Midwest Meadow Muffin is cemented.
As if that's not enough, Lissie got her concert tickets last night, and I've become a hero in her eyes. I called it right, thinking some rich guy checking the Wish List website must have seen my request for tickets and made it come true.
Today at breakfast we're all smiles. She's talking about what she plans to wear to the concert on Friday.
"We better get moving," I say, "and quick!"
"Why the sudden rush? I thought you were bulletproof."
I pointed at the window behind her.
"Check it out."
Across the street, two men in dark suits were knocking on our neighbor's door.
Lissie laughed. "Jehovah's Witnesses? No problem, Glen and Barbara can handle them."
"Which means they'll be knocking on our door soon."
"Good point. Let's roll!"
Thirty minutes later I'm at my desk. Oglethorpe is watching me from his office door. You'd think he'd be thrilled that his branch is getting a big client, but no, he and Hilda are clearly upset. He's had all he can take. He strides to my desk and in his most demanding voice, says, "Who's your client?"
"You'll see."
"I could fire you before he arrives."
"Go ahead."
He's flustered. For the first time since I've known him, he can't intimidate me.
"Was there anything else?" I say.
"This better be good, Flapjack."
"Oh, it's good, Ogleshit."
"What did you call me?"
I'm about to repeat the insult in a loud voice so everyone in the office can enjoy it, but I suddenly hear a gasp from the desk beside me, and notice my co-worker, Marjorie Campbell, isn't looking well. She's staring at the front door in horror. I follow her gaze. Two women have just entered the bank, wearing skimpy, skin-tight clothing. Their hair is wild and their makeup provocative. They appear to be hookers.
Hilda races across the floor.
"Oh no, you don't! Get out! Out! Gus?"
Gus awakes with a start, stumbles off his stool, grabs the butt of his gun, and looks around, surveying the situation.
One of the whores says something I can't hear. Hilda says, "Oh really?"
Then she starts cackling.
Oglethorpe says, "What's the meaning of this?"
Hilda shouts, "They're here to see Mr. Pancake about a business loan."
I jump to my feet and cross the floor to the women.
"Chelsea?"
"Hi, hon," she says. "This here's Emma Glendenning, my life partner."
I hustle them into the conference room, where I learn that Chelsea (five foot seven, bursting with tits) and Emma (braided armpit hair, pink spandex camel toe shorts, black and white prison-striped leggings) intend to start an online lesbian porn site with a twenty-four hour live camera feed covering every room in their house.
" Every room?" I say, as if that makes a difference.
"Of course!" Chelsea says. "Otherwise it wouldn't be an authentic portrayal."
"Of?"
"Of our lives."
I excuse myself and go to the employee wash room to splash some cold water on my face. I should flush myself down the toilet to catch up with my career, but instead I call the phone number Mrs. Blankenship gave me.
She answers, and I say, "Did Chelsea tell you what she and Emma plan to do with the loan proceeds?"
"I have a general idea, but I'd prefer not to hear the details. Why do you ask?"
"I mean, are you okay with this?"
"I have no control over her. Kids nowadays! It's all about fornication and sex tapes."
I rejoin the girls in the conference room, fill out the forms because I said I would, and escort them out of the building as surreptitiously as possible. Moments later Oglethorpe is reading my notes, laughing hysterically. He calls Hilda into his office and their conjoined laughter practically shakes the windows. Hilda opens the door and says, "Mr. Flapjack. If you would be so kind."
I enter Oglethorpe's office like my feet are made of lead. In less than a minute, it's over.
"Your contemptuous behavior toward Hilda yesterday, your deliberately profane pronunciation of my name today, and this joke of a loan application leave me no choice but to terminate your employment, effective immediately."
I'm thinking of future Chelsea Blankenship loans and wonder if I can convince him there is still value to be mined from the connection to Whitney Blankenship.
"Mr. Oglethorpe?"
"Shut up, Flapjack. Go clean out your desk. You've got ten minutes to gather your things. Then Gus will escort you to your car."
I turn to leave, but Oglethorpe's door is suddenly blocked by a lean, well-dressed businessman holding a manila folder in his left hand. He looks all business, and tough in a way that reminds me of a thirty-five year old Charles Bronson, with thick, black eyebrows and scrunched up facial features. His French cuffs are held in place with square-cut diamonds that, if real, appear to be at least four carats each. His left wrist sports a diamond-studded Piaget watch with a black alligator wrist band. The lines of the suit are unmistakable, though I've seen few of them in Louisville.
Bad as I feel, I can't help myself. I have to ask. "Is that a Brioni?"
"It is."
I nod, and start heading for my desk.