Fatal Debt Read online

  Fatal Debt

  By

  Dorothy Howell

  Copyright © 2013 by Dorothy Howell

  DorothyHowellNovels.com

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Dorothy Howell.

  With love to David, Stacy, Judy, Seth, and Brian

  Cover art by Evie Cook

  http://evie-cook.artistwebsites.com

  Editing by William F. Wu

  www.williamfwu.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Excerpt from Evening Bags and Executions

  Chapter 1

  “Repo the Sullivans’s TV,” Manny said, gesturing to the print-out on his desk.

  “What? The Sullivans? No way,” I told him.

  “Today,” he said. “They’re too far past due. We can’t carry them.”

  “Come on, Manny, not the Sullivans,” I said. “They’re nice people. They’ve had an account with us for twenty years, or something. I can’t repossess their television.”

  Manny Franco who, technically, was my supervisor—though I disagreed with the disparity in our positions on many levels—lowered himself into his chair and dug his heels into the carpet to roll himself up to his desk.

  “We never should have made that loan. They can’t afford it,” he said, swiping his damp forehead with his palm.

  Manny was always stressed. He was only an inch taller than me—and at five-feet, nine-inches I’m tall for a girl—and outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds. He wore his black hair long and slicked back in waves. His suits always looked a little rumpled and his collar a size too small.

  I was sitting in the chair beside Manny’s desk in the office of Mid-America Financial Services, a nationwide consumer finance company that granted personal loans, second mortgages, and did some dealer financing for things like TVs, stereos, and furniture.

  I’d worked all sorts of jobs in the past few years. Data entry, waitressing, sales clerk, then a good job as an admin assistant for a major corporation that went under, taking me with it. Piercing ears at the mall landed me the job at Mid-America.

  Something about snapping on latex gloves and driving a metal spike through the flesh of infants and children had impressed Mr. Burrows, the branch manager, and he’d hired me several months ago as an asset manager.

  While that might sound like a fabulous job—that came with a fabulous salary—not so. But the big three-oh was on the horizon, I’d been unemployed forever, and I was still working on my B.A., so I didn’t have a lot of options. Like many other people in the country, I’d been desperate for a paycheck. Besides, I hadn’t decided what my future held—beyond taking over the world, the only thing I knew for sure I wanted to do with my life.

  I liked justice. I liked the scales to balance, which was one of the things that appealed to me about my job with Mid-America. It gave me a chance to be judge, jury, and executioner, at times, to mete out a little justice for my customer’s benefit and, sometimes, for Mid-America’s benefit.

  I didn’t like it when things didn’t even out.

  According to Mid-America, the position of asset manager required that I telephoned customers who were behind on their payments and work with them to get their accounts up to date. I was okay with helping people get back on their feet, financially—I remember well the Summer of Spam, as I thought of it, when I was ten years old and my dad lost his job.

  I was also expected to take whatever steps were necessary to collect Mid-America’s accounts, including pursuing legal action and repossessing collateral. No way was I doing that, so I put my own twist on the position.

  “The Sullivans are doing okay,” I said to Manny, even though I knew they weren’t. But I liked them, two sweet old people, both in their sixties.

  “Repo the TV, Dana,” Manny said.

  “Mr. Sullivan lost his part-time job,” I said.

  Manny was unmoved. He’d heard this story a zillion times.

  “He has another job lined up,” I said, even though I knew it wasn’t true. “They’ll have the money soon.”

  Manny’s gaze narrowed, studying me, like he thought maybe I was just shining him on—which I was. But I’m as good at the stare-down as anybody so I gazed right back at Manny without blinking an eye.

  “I have to answer to Corporate on this,” he said.

  Corporate. What a bunch of jackasses.

  “Pick up the TV, Dana. Now,” Manny said, then turned to his computer. I gathered my stuff and left the office with one thought burning in my mind: how the heck was I going to get out of repoing the Sullivans’ television and still keep my job?

  * * *

  I fumed as I drove out of Mid-America’s parking lot and headed for the freeway. Luckily, I had on a favorite pants and jacket outfit, the sun shone bright, and I was treated to a gorgeous late October day here in Santa Flores.

  The city was, admittedly, not one of Southern California’s finest, even though it was situated half-way between Los Angeles and Palm Springs, at the base of the mountains leading up to the Big Bear and Lake Arrowhead ski resorts. But don’t let that prestigious location give you any ideas. A few years back Santa Flores was dubbed the Murder Capital of America.

  Yes, the Murder Capital of America was my home. A place where you could get killed for your shoes. I’d lived there all my life. My whole family lived there too, except my older brother who’d married and moved up north about a year ago; Mom’s still giving him “another month or so” before she’s sure he’ll move back.

  Like a lot of other places, things had gone badly for Santa Flores in the last few decades. The steel mill shut down, the railroad yard moved, the Air Force base closed. Gangs moved in from L.A. The real estate bubble burst. Businesses closed. The only thing on the upswing was the number of people out of work.

  I took the 215 freeway north and exited on State Street—the Sullivans had been behind on their account so many times I knew the way to their house without my GPS—then made my way to Devon, a nice area—once—but that was before I was born. Gangs had brought drugs and violence. Some of the houses were abandoned, long ago falling to ruin. A few families valiantly kept up their yards and painted over the graffiti on their fences; most just hung on.

  As I parked outside the chain link fence that surrounded the Sullivans’ little stucco home, I noted the place needed painting. The grass was dead. Old lawn chairs and broken flower pots were overturned beside the porch.

  Despite everything, Arthur and Gladys Sullivan were sweet, loveable old people, the kind you couldn’t say no to—though Mid-America should have said “no” to their last loan request. They were on a fixed income; their budget was tight. They’d needed five hundred dollars to fix their car, and Mr. Sullivan needed that car to get to his part-time job. Mid-America had approved the
loan, picking up their 42-inch Sony television for collateral.

  They’d fallen behind on their payments a few months ago but I’d let it go—thus, the twist I’d put on my job description—giving them time to get some money together. Now Manny—and Corporate—thought I’d held off too long. I had, but that didn’t mean I was going to take their TV.

  I got out of my Honda. The front gate squeaked when I opened it, the boards of the porch groaned, the screen door rattled. I knocked, hoping the Sullivans wouldn’t be there. They were.

  Mr. Sullivan opened the door also squeaking, groaning, and rattling. His file indicated he was 67. He looked older. His hair appeared more white than gray against his black skin. He wore denim jeans and a red flannel shirt buttoned at the collar; he walked on the backs of his corduroy house slippers.

  He squinted at me and smiled, showing a missing bottom tooth, then turned back inside.

  “Look who’s here,” he called. “It’s that Mid-America girl.”

  I’m here to repo his TV and he’s glad to see me. Great.

  “Dana Mackenzie,” I said, reminding him of my name.

  He led the way into the living room. The house was neat and clean, decorated with lace doilies and pictures of Jesus. It smelled like boiling beans and linoleum.

  Mrs. Sullivan sat on a worn sofa wearing a floral house coat with snaps up the front. She was watching television, of course.

  “Hi, Mrs. Sullivan,” I said.

  She glanced up at me. “Hi, honey.”

  “Mama’s watching her stories,” Mr. Sullivan said.

  A soap opera, I realized, glancing at the screen.

  Mr. Sullivan eased onto his threadbare recliner and I sat in a straight-backed chair beside him. We exchanged pleasantries and I stalled, but finally came to the point.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan, but my boss reviewed your account, and he wants me to pick up your television,” I said.

  He just looked at me, taking it in, making me feel worse, then shook his head.

  “Well, if you got to, you got to.” He looked over at his wife. “But how’s Mama gonna watch her stories? She loves her stories. What’s she gonna do?”

  He wasn’t so much asking me as musing aloud how he’d let her down.

  If ever I’d been tempted to give a customer some money, this was it. They were old people. They didn’t have much. The home they’d bought when they were young was decaying. The neighborhood they’d invested their time and emotion in had fallen to criminals. Their health was about gone. Not much was left for them—except Mrs. Sullivan’s stories, and Mr. Sullivan’s ability to let her watch them.

  I’d be fired on the spot if I made a payment on a customer’s account. A partial payment, a few cents, it wouldn’t matter. Even if I loaned it to them, I’d be gone. And I couldn’t afford to lose my job.

  “We don’t get money again until the first of the month,” Mr. Sullivan said. “I’ve got Mama’s medicine money. I could give you that.”

  I cringed.

  “I’ll call Leonard,” I said.

  Leonard was their grandson. He’d had an account with Mid-America some time back. Lots of families had accounts with us. It wasn’t unusual. They passed us around and talked about us over holiday meals.

  Leonard was about my age. He had trouble holding a job—not finding a job, like most people, just holding onto it. He’d been late on his payments more times than not, yet there was something very likeable about him. I had no problem calling him and asking for money on his grandparents’ behalf.

  “He’s a good boy,” Mr. Sullivan said. “We raised him, me and Mama, after his daddy died and his mama took off. He’s got a new job. I’ll call him. He’ll help us out.”

  I felt more relieved than Mr. Sullivan appeared.

  “I’ll tell him to come by the house after he gets off work,” Mr. Sullivan said. “Maybe he can drive me down to your office.”

  I didn’t want to take the chance that something might come up, so I said, “I’ll come back out and pick up the money.”

  “You come on back at supper time,” Mr. Sullivan said.

  I waved to Mrs. Sullivan, who didn’t seem to notice, thanked Mr. Sullivan, and left.

  * * *

  In the short time I’d worked for Mid-America, the company had been bought out by a major conglomerate, then a mega-conglomerate, neither of which had done much except cause everyone a lot of unnecessary headaches.

  Our office was located in downtown Santa Flores in a two-story building on Fifth Street. Just down the block were the post office, the courthouse, and all sorts of restaurants, bars, and office buildings.

  Mid-America had one of the offices on the ground floor that offered great “signage,” according to a guy in a thousand-dollar-suit who’d come out from the corporate office in Chicago to evaluate our location and formulate an enhanced marketing plan, and then had, apparently, forgotten we existed.

  All I cared about was keeping our current location so I could look out our big plate glass window all day.

  When I got back to the office Manny was more concerned with a possible foreclosure on a house out in Webster, a town about twenty minutes east of Santa Flores. He accepted my explanation of why I wasn’t carrying a 42-inch Sony television with only a brief nod, and I got on with my work.

  My desk sat at the rear of the office near Manny’s. This placement was Corporate’s decision, not mine. According to Mid-America’s seating chart, the cashier who took payments from our walk-in customers sat at the counter up front. Just behind her were the two financial reps who handled the lending end of the business, along with Inez Marshall, their supervisor who was, thankfully, not in the office today. The beige furniture, walls, and carpet, and seascapes in plastic frames, were about as generic as an office could get.

  The mail had been delivered while I was out, and I saw a neat stack of envelopes centered on my desk—Corporate had not bestowed upon us online bill-paying capability, despite our fabulous signage. I got to look at the mail before anyone in the branch because I was anxious to know which of my customers had paid. Getting money together to make a payment was tough for my customers. I didn’t want to be calling them if their payment was at the cashier’s desk waiting to be posted.

  I’d just about reached the bottom of the stack when a familiar return address leaped off the envelope and smacked me between the eyes.

  Nick Travis.

  My breath caught and I felt a smile spread across my face. Oh, yeah, this was the boost I needed right now.

  I’d known Nick Travis in high school. Everybody knew Nick Travis. Football team captain, student body president, gorgeous hottie. He’d dated my best friend, Katie Jo Miller, for a short while—a very short while—when Katie Jo and I were sophomores and Nick was in his senior year.

  Nick got her pregnant, made her have an abortion, then dumped her and left town.

  Imagine my surprise all these years later to find an account on Mid-America’s books from Nick Travis. He’d financed a high-end television and sound system. I hadn’t even known he’d moved back to Santa Flores.

  When I’d seen Nick Travis’s name on the computer screen that day—and after I got myself up off the floor—I accessed his file and proceeded to learn everything there was to know about the man who’d ruined my best friend’s life.

  The copy of his driver’s license that the TV dealer had provided indicated Nick was six-three, two hundred twenty pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. He’d moved back to Santa Flores a few months before the application was taken. He had checking and savings accounts at a credit union, two Visas with small balances, a Chevy that was financed, and a mortgage payment.

  The mortgage surprised me because according to the application, Nick was unmarried. He had no dependents and paid no child support or alimony.

  The shocker was that Nick worked for the Santa Flores Police Department as a detective. I guess they’re pretty desperate these days—especially here in the Murder Capital of America.


  Katie Jo’s abortion had been rough. Her parents had been supportive but they were disappointed in their little girl. There were religious issues.

  She stayed home for a long time. She wouldn’t return phone calls. She refused to talk to anyone, even to me, her best friend. She was never the same after that. Neither were her parents. Neither was I.

  The only one unscathed was Nick Travis.

  I logged onto my computer and pulled up his account. A lot of people waited until the last minute to make their payment, getting it in to us just before it was considered late. Nick Travis was one of those people. According to his due date, today was the last day he could make his payment and avoid a late charge.

  I looked at the computer screen, looked at his payment, and thought about Katie Jo Miller.

  I ripped Nick Travis’s check into tiny pieces and dropped it into my trash can.

  * * *

  At 4:50 I pulled up Nick Travis’s account on my computer and called his office.

  “Travis,” he barked, when he came on the line. He sounded as if he was just short of a bad mood. I was about to make his afternoon.

  I identified myself with my sweetest voice.

  “I’m calling because I was looking over your account and I noticed that today is the last day to avoid a late charge,” I said, “and we haven’t received your payment yet.”

  Silence. The cold, hard kind.

  “I made that payment,” he finally said.

  I pictured cartoon-steam coming out of his ears.

  “Well, it hasn’t come in yet,” I said. “You can bring it in, if you want to avoid the late charge.”

  “You close in five minutes.”

  I gasped—an Academy Award winning gasp—and said, “You’re right. Looks like you’ll have to pay that late charge.”

  I hung up feeling pleased with myself, and pleased for Katie Jo, too.

  At five o’clock on the dot Carmen Chavez, our cashier, locked the door and began to count her cash drawer. Carmen was a few years younger than me, but was already married with a small child.