My mistake.”

Extending his hand to her he says, “I’m Rob Ketchel.”

She nods. “I don’t shake hands. Nothing personal, but you look like a scruffy vagabond to me. I suppose it’s the style nowadays.” To me she says, “I like the cut of your jib, though.”

She turns her attention back to the menu.

Rob is uncomfortable standing there with his hand outstretched. He holds the pose a moment, then reclaims his seat.

“My granddaughter intends to hit me up for a loan,” Mrs. Blankenship says. “You’d think she’d have the courtesy of meeting me at a decent restaurant and showing up on time.”

My outlook brightens. “A loan, you say?”

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

Even without the hat, Mrs. Blankenship is overdressed for Tokyo Blue. She’s wearing a tan linen skirt, white silk blouse, and a linen jacket that’s too young and hip for her. The jewelry adorning her hands and wrists is the old fashioned, inherited kind.

It’s finally coming together for me: Mrs. Blankenship. The Allison Maddox Charitable Trust. Sitting next to me, liking the cut of my jib, is none other than Whitney Blankenship, one of the wealthiest women in America.

I signal the waitress and clear my throat.

“I’ll have a Derby Roll, and my lady friend will have a miso soup and salad.”

Before Mrs. Blankenship can protest, I say, “My treat.” Then I whisper, “They don’t touch the soup or salad with their fingers.”

She assesses me a moment, and says, “Well, why not? Serves my granddaughter right. I’ll just start eating without her.”

“An excellent lesson in punctuality,” I say. Then add, “What type of loan is your granddaughter seeking?”

Mrs. Blankenship raises her eyebrows at my impudence.

“I’m only asking because I might be able to help. I’m a loan officer.”

“For whom?”

“Midwest Commercial.”

“Truly?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“I wouldn’t know. You might.”

“True. But why would I?”

She ponders this a moment, then says, “How’s Jake?”

She’s referring to Jackson “Jake” Robards, our President and CEO. Whitney Blankenship’s eyes are dancing with humor. She’s toying with me. Before I can respond she says, “When I wish to secure a loan from your bank I call Jake personally. Why on earth would I waste my time dealing with you?”

I hear Rob Ketchel’s soft chuckle to my left. He’s enjoying what he assumes will be the evisceration of my ego. But I’ve got an idea, an argument so brilliant and powerful, it seems divinely inspired.

“Mrs. Blankenship,” I say. “Have you loaned money to your granddaughter in the past?”

“I don’t see what business that is of yours.”

“Bear with me, please. I’m trying to help.