The Kharma
Bank
(a novelization)
(a novelization)
By John D. Morton
“You’d like to know a little bit about me for your files.” Recognize that? It’s a lyric from the Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” that my room mate, Robert Clark, played incessantly during both our junior and senior year at Exeter.
In any event, for your files, I’m F. Scott Castle. Thirty-five, six foot two and with my blond hair, not the least bit Jewish looking. My wife Lisa claims her sisters at Phi-Kappa thought me rather dashing with rugged good looks. Who am I to disagree? To round up the portrait, I play squash at least three times a week at “The Brooklyn Heights Racquetball and squash club” (an A player) and I am the youngest associate ever to make partner at Paul, Weiss, Rifkind and Wharton. I smoke cigars, one or two a week and they are Cohibas. I am waiting for my now ten minutes late dining partner, Daniel Stein, who looks every bit, Jewish. And where I was waiting was at 53 Bank Street in the village. The location of Sena, the only five star Cuban Restaurant in NYC.
“Carlos, un otro mojito por favor.”
“S í, Sr. Castle.”
Dianne, the owner, stopped by my table on her early evening cruise. She was wearing a very attractive peach halter top and white dress slacks. She made the outfit look perfect. Lisa has one and . . .well.
“Hello Mr. Castle. It’s nice to be seeing you again so soon. Say, didn’t you say that your father was an actor?”
“Yes Dianne. Seymour Castle. In my opinion a very talented character actor with a penchant for both F. Scott Fitzgerald novels and married women. I happen to think his best was Casevete’s ‘Faces’ but he preferred ‘California Dreaming’ possibly because he was listed as the star.”
“Oh wait I’m going to get a pen. Are those films available on video?”
I nodded my ascent just as Daniel entered, bewildered as usual. It took five seconds for him to spot me at a table only seven feet away.
“Good evening Sir, Can I have Carlos bring you a drink?”
“Yes. A bud. Thank you very much.”
“I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have Budweiser. Corona, Modelo, Pacifico, Heineken and Hatuey, but I’m afraid it’s the Florida kind.”
Daniel ordered the only name he recognized and Diane set off to make it so.
The coat check girl. “Can I take your jacket Sir?”
“No thank you, I’m just a little bit chilly so I’ll keep it with me.”
Just a little bit cheap is more like it!
I said, “Sit ye down Daniel and recount to me your tale of woe!” Which he did after depositing his jacket on the back of the chair.
Daniel espied around him, as if someone would actually be interested enough to bother to overhear. What an absolute and thorough putz!
He spoke in a hushed tone. “I’m scared Scott. The new business partners. Want me to channel about a hundred thousand dollars through the company! Can get in to trouble, can go to jail for that can’t I?”
“Daniel, many illicit financial functions are preformed each day in this city. The trick is, and again this is accomplished through a circumspect, well thought out and thorough assessment, The trick is Daniel, not to get caught.”
“But Scott,“ He narrowed his eyes as if squinting would make him less audible, “Isn’t what they want me to do . . . illegal? My partners, I mean they’re . . .you know . . .“ his voice was a whisper now, “Italian!”
I took a long swallow of my tropical drink and put in a very theatric and pregnant pause, then, “Certainly one could, if one were actually to engage in illegal activity, but let me help you paint a larger picture here Daniel. As you spread your oils (and very green oils they are) on your financial canvas, a little impasto here and a little crackling there, some deft use of the palette knife, and voila! Daniel, you’ve painted your masterpiece. And a masterpiece such as the one I’m going to help you paint can be worth millions!” I did not add, especially after the artist is dead.
“For real Scott?”
“For real Daniel.”
A synthesized mini-version of Ludwig Van Beethoven’s 9th announced to the entire restaurant that Daniel Stein had an incoming cell phone call. He reached into the pocket of his non-Brook’s Brothers suit jacket on his chair back for the phone. The jacket fell, gracefully to the floor where it was retrieved by Carlos who replaced it on the chair and set our drinks down. I held up a finger to order another mojito.
“Hello, Daniel Stein speaking.” Now, for some reason unclear to me he chooses to speak at near ear splitting volume, “Hi Anthon . . .I mean, Mr. Roccosalvo. Yes, I am talking to my lawyer right now about the ‘arrangements.’ He says if we paint the picture right, a little pasta here and a little crack there, there’s no way we’ll won’t get caught. And we’ll . . . I mean, you’ll be rich. I mean richer.” The surrounding tables were visibly annoyed, but I just smiled, I mean, how frigging stupid can you get?
“Yes Mr. Roccosalvo, I will first thing tomorrow morning. And my very best to your lovely Angela.”
When he was off I pointed out to him that cell phones were actual little radio transmitters and apprised him that his partners were almost certainly under some kind of observation, hence it might be prudent to exercise a little discretion to which he nodded knowingly. It was all news to him.
Carlos returned with my fresh mojito.
“Are the gentlemen ready to order?” and suddenly Daniel panic stricken was pouring over the menu trying to un-encrypt something edible from the morass of Spanish.
“Shall I order for you Daniel?”
“Yes please!”
“Dos ropa viejas por favor Carlos y, tostones, plantanos, congri y dos enseladas mixtas.”
“Buenos Sr. Castle.”
“The vieja was perfect, savory in the extremis! Right Daniel?”
“Yeah. Was very good!”
This was the conversation I had with Dianne when she stopped by on her mid-evening cruise.
“Oh I’m so glad you enjoyed it. You know, the Cubans always order the ropa vieja to test me. And I always catch them up front by the bar when they go by on their way to the bathroom at mid-meal. ‘Oh Diane! Is just like my mother’s!’ They love it. I just added a little more tomato and celentro.
“Can I interest you gents in a carajillo. Carlos Gariacoa, the Cuban artist told me how to make it when he was here last month for a show. It’s a cafecito with a splash of añejo. I went out and got a dozen little silver pitchers. Carlos, that’s our Carlos I mean, the waiter Carlos, decants the rum right at you table because when the añejo hits the hot coffee, the bouquet is not to be missed!"
“Sounds marvelous Diane. We will certainly partake.”
“And how about two orders of flan-diane on me? My own invention! A most delicate flan infused with both chocolate and coffee.”
“Absolutely Dianne!”
Even minus the two flans, the bill came to one hundred and seventy two dollars and I let Daniel pick it up which he most assuredly did not want to do.
Outside it was,
“Daniel my good man. We are soon to be very rich!”
“Hope so Scott. Could use the money. The paint plant in Long Island City. Sucking me dry. Thank you Scott. Thank you much.” He was literally pumping my hand. “Feel lot a whole lot better after talking to you. My very best to your lovely Lisa.”
“And my very best to your lovely Eileen.”
And that, as they say, was that!
On 7th, one half block from the West 4th St. subway station.
“Gimme sixty-five cent.”
It startled him. He had not seen the bum nestled in the heart of darkness next to the news kiosk. It had made him angry to be brought out of his reverie in that manner.
Scott Castle was not in the least racist or prejudice. For one thing, he was Jewish, and there was a long and cherished history shared between African-America and the Chosen. Further verity was provided by Anita, the African-American girlfriend of six weeks at Harvard. But nonetheless there was certainly a distinction to be made between proud, hardworking African-Americans and this excrement riddled sub-human lounging on a piece of filthy cardboard.
“Hey man! Please gimme sixty-five cent.”
Scott was incensed at this animal and perhaps slightly tipsy from the five mojitos. Scott proffered a bill from his wallet. “I’ll tell you what my good man, I will make it five dollars if you acknowledge the fact that you are a purposeful, lumpen, alcoholic. A professional lowlife scum that believes his subsistence to be waranteed and does no more feign insanity for the sole purpose of garnering remuneration from hard working white people like myself.
“I that’s a fair proposition. A declaration of truth from you for five whole dollars! What do you say, shall we consummate this deal?” He wafted the five in the air. Scott was taking the power back and it was right.
The bum’s eyebrows arched, but not too much.
“Wha’ was you sayin? Pleas mister, jus gimme sixty five cent!”
“Let me put it another way. I will give you five, no, lets make it ten dollars, if you say to me with pride, ‘I am a nigger.’”
He actually had not intended on saying the “N” word but it was out now. So be it. He had just seen Chris Rock Special on HBO where Chris himself did a whole routine touting the distinction between ‘the regular, hardworking, got three jobs to support my family, Black People’ and what he himself an African-American, called ‘them God damn lazy nigger motherfuckers.’
The bum gazed the bills. The unfortunate dear really didn’t have a choice in the matter, did he?
“Shit. Ok, I a nigger. Now gimme my ten dollar!”
The bills went back in the wallet and Scott turned toward the subway entrance.
“Hey Mo-fucker! Gimme my mo-fucking ten fuckin dollar!” The less than fortunate tried to raise himself on one arm, but it proved an impossible task.
“Please, don’t bother to get up, I’ll see myself out. But just for your edification, let me apprise you gave the wrong response. If you had called me, as you so colorfully put it, ‘Mo-fucker’ when I engendered the proposal, the two five dollar bills would be at this very moment on its way with you to that liquor store across the street to buy at least 12 pint bottles of ‘Abbey’s Wild Irish Rose.’
“I am indeed sorry, but you made the bed, even though it be of cardboard. I bid you Good night Sir.” And Scott was off to the subway with what could only be called a self satisfied smirk on his face. He heard a string of epithets as he descended the stairs.
To Lisa’s voice mail, “It’s me honey. I’m staying at the Brooklyn house tonight. The dinner with that moron Stein ran late. Don’t bother to call. I’ll speak to you in the morning. Love you.” He flipped the cell closed and slipped it into his pocket then glanced once again at the gold Breitling. “Damn, It just simply isn’t that late for the trains to take this long.”
Another twenty minutes and he harked back to a curious phrase he had once happened onto in the 1953 edition of his father’s Websters. “The White Man’s Burden.” And this remembrance worked on him to the end that after ten more minutes he was once again in front of the bum. Two crisp new twenty dollar bills in his hand.
“Gimme sixty-five cent.” And there was not a glint of recognition when the bum gratefully received the bill from Scott’s out stretched hand, “Ga bless you! Oh Ga bless you sir!” A tear actually coursed his cheek.
“121 Clinton Street in Brooklyn Heights.” The cabbie frowned upon the announcement of the address but did not say anything.
On the Abraham Haverstrome Memorial Ramp, Scott felt a slight uneasiness creep in at the edge of his awareness.
It was on the bridge proper that Scott actually acknowledged the feeling. It was a deep disappointment in himself for the way he had acted. He had caved in.
Someone had just taken a flash picture on the walkway of the bridge twenty feet above the road surface. Without a doubt one more terribly ubiquitous night time Manhattan skyline.
It would be an excellent photo thought Kato Yoshihiro but it would be wise to capture another. As he awaited the brief half-second for the electronic flash to regenerate, he heard a horrible loud crack. Like a gun going off, as cable #321WP (the WP standing for West Pier) finally snapped from 103 years of metal fatigue and whipped towards him on the wooden boardwalk two hundred feet below.
The End
©
John D. Morton
October 2000
