aroused, which only made him beat her more. But he’d almost knocked her out. He wanted his women awake and begging, fear showing on their faces, not unconscious. Otherwise, it just wasn’t any fun.
He wondered briefly about the car he had passed after he left. A man and a woman. Older couple. Probably just taking pictures of his mansion. It happened all the time. People thought it was a friggin’ tourist site. He put the couple out of his mind. He had more important things to dwell on. Sanford Cunningham was due at Folsom’s offices at 10 a.m. to brief him on progress on the transition of ownership of Broad Street National Bank.
Folsom hated the damned banking business. Too many employees, too many branches, too many customers, too much regulatory oversight. And then there was all that bullshit about CRA. Banks had to adhere to Community Reinvestment Act rules and regulations that essentially required lending institutions to “give back to the community” by making loans to disadvantaged borrowers, among other requirements. “Fuck CRA,” Folsom muttered. He’d made a lot of money off the Feds, but they were all a bunch of bureaucratic pantywaists who were concerned about two things only: Their jobs and their retirements. These assholes had been asleep at the switch while loans were being made to anyone who could fog a mirror. Now they were covering their asses by demonizing the bankers and taking over perfectly good lending institutions. Good for him; bad for the bankers; bad for bank shareholders; bad for the taxpayers.
The Feds had “encouraged” him to buy Broad Street National Bank by threatening to not sell him any more loan pools. He’d been buying loan pools from the Feds at huge discounts, making tens of millions of dollars on each pool. Buy a $100 million pool at twenty cents on the dollar, or $20 million. Then strong arm the borrowers to pay up or forfeit their collateral. Even if he only collected $40 million from the pool, he’d doubled his money. The Feds were smart enough to realize how good the deals were they’d given him. Now they wanted him to come to their assistance. So, he’d forked over the bucks to buy this bank so the Feds wouldn’t have to come in and close it down, scaring the crap out of the average citizen and the politicians in Washington, and depleting the FDIC insurance fund. The last thing the FDIC wanted was another Indy Mac fiasco —panicked depositors lined up to get their money.
Well, he’d collect whatever loans he could, liquidate the collateral on those he couldn’t collect, and then liquidate the bank or sell the franchise to some big financial institution that wanted a branch footprint in Philadelphia—one of the big nine banks who were in bed with the Feds. Too big to fail, my ass, he thought.
He pressed the telephone button on his steering wheel and engaged his Bluetooth device, speed dialing Donald Matson’s cell phone number.
“Hello,” Matson answered in a hushed voice.
“It’s Gerald,” Folsom said. “Where are you?”
“In church. Hold on while I go outside.”
“Church, my aching butt,” Folsom groaned. “Probably begging God’s forgiveness for taking bribes to fuck over unsuspecting bankers and dumbshit taxpayers.”
“What was that?” Matson asked.
“Nothing,” Folsom said. “Probably the radio. What are your employees telling you about the Broad Street Bank transition?”
“Everything’s going great. Cunningham’s a real pro. He’s done this at least a dozen times now, right?”
“Three times since working for me; probably nine or ten times before that.”
“So far, so good,” Matson said. “The transition is seamless.”
“Good. I just wanted to make sure my friends with Uncle Sugar are happy. You check the safety deposit box?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I had to use a bigger box this time. The small ones couldn’t hold that much money.”
“Jeez, Gerald. Someone could be listening to this call.”
“What?
He wondered briefly about the car he had passed after he left. A man and a woman. Older couple. Probably just taking pictures of his mansion. It happened all the time. People thought it was a friggin’ tourist site. He put the couple out of his mind. He had more important things to dwell on. Sanford Cunningham was due at Folsom’s offices at 10 a.m. to brief him on progress on the transition of ownership of Broad Street National Bank.
Folsom hated the damned banking business. Too many employees, too many branches, too many customers, too much regulatory oversight. And then there was all that bullshit about CRA. Banks had to adhere to Community Reinvestment Act rules and regulations that essentially required lending institutions to “give back to the community” by making loans to disadvantaged borrowers, among other requirements. “Fuck CRA,” Folsom muttered. He’d made a lot of money off the Feds, but they were all a bunch of bureaucratic pantywaists who were concerned about two things only: Their jobs and their retirements. These assholes had been asleep at the switch while loans were being made to anyone who could fog a mirror. Now they were covering their asses by demonizing the bankers and taking over perfectly good lending institutions. Good for him; bad for the bankers; bad for bank shareholders; bad for the taxpayers.
The Feds had “encouraged” him to buy Broad Street National Bank by threatening to not sell him any more loan pools. He’d been buying loan pools from the Feds at huge discounts, making tens of millions of dollars on each pool. Buy a $100 million pool at twenty cents on the dollar, or $20 million. Then strong arm the borrowers to pay up or forfeit their collateral. Even if he only collected $40 million from the pool, he’d doubled his money. The Feds were smart enough to realize how good the deals were they’d given him. Now they wanted him to come to their assistance. So, he’d forked over the bucks to buy this bank so the Feds wouldn’t have to come in and close it down, scaring the crap out of the average citizen and the politicians in Washington, and depleting the FDIC insurance fund. The last thing the FDIC wanted was another Indy Mac fiasco —panicked depositors lined up to get their money.
Well, he’d collect whatever loans he could, liquidate the collateral on those he couldn’t collect, and then liquidate the bank or sell the franchise to some big financial institution that wanted a branch footprint in Philadelphia—one of the big nine banks who were in bed with the Feds. Too big to fail, my ass, he thought.
He pressed the telephone button on his steering wheel and engaged his Bluetooth device, speed dialing Donald Matson’s cell phone number.
“Hello,” Matson answered in a hushed voice.
“It’s Gerald,” Folsom said. “Where are you?”
“In church. Hold on while I go outside.”
“Church, my aching butt,” Folsom groaned. “Probably begging God’s forgiveness for taking bribes to fuck over unsuspecting bankers and dumbshit taxpayers.”
“What was that?” Matson asked.
“Nothing,” Folsom said. “Probably the radio. What are your employees telling you about the Broad Street Bank transition?”
“Everything’s going great. Cunningham’s a real pro. He’s done this at least a dozen times now, right?”
“Three times since working for me; probably nine or ten times before that.”
“So far, so good,” Matson said. “The transition is seamless.”
“Good. I just wanted to make sure my friends with Uncle Sugar are happy. You check the safety deposit box?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I had to use a bigger box this time. The small ones couldn’t hold that much money.”
“Jeez, Gerald. Someone could be listening to this call.”
“What?
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