Repo Madness by W. Bruce Cameron Page B

anyone; he looked like somebody’s favorite uncle. He wore a sharp navy suit with a white shirt and a muted tie—a banker outfit, in other words. He blinked his light-brown eyes in surprise when I told him I had Zoppi’s Cherokee in the back.
    â€œThat fast?” His face lit up in a boyish grin. “I just called it in to your boss yesterday.”
    â€œIt was right there at his place of business.”
    Blanchard leaned back, his chair springs groaning in alarm as his considerable heft tested their strength. He seemed eager for details, so I walked him through my little ruse, and he laughed so hard, his face turned red. “Well, you are certainly the right man for the job,” he concluded.
    I optimistically interpreted that to mean we had just landed the account for Kramer Recovery of Kalkaska. I wondered if Kermit would give me a bonus.
    â€œDo me a favor. Shut the door a minute.”
    The bank had locked the outer doors and most of the employees had left, but I did what Blanchard had requested. When I sat back down, his demeanor had changed somehow—less avuncular, more crafty, maybe.
    â€œSomething’s going on,” Alan suggested superfluously.
    â€œSo, Ruddy, I asked around about you,” Blanchard said, his eyes watching me unwaveringly. “I know you’re an ex-con, and I heard some people were threatening your sister’s business and you took care of them with, uh, extreme prejudice.”
    Since that wasn’t my interpretation of events, I opened my mouth to object, but he held up a hand.
    â€œNo, that’s okay. Don’t need to discuss that. Not why I asked you to shut the door. Have another job for you, something up your alley. Interested?” A small smile played at his lips, as if he had a wonderful gift he couldn’t wait to give me.
    I waited. I had stopped liking our Mr. Blanchard so much.
    â€œAll right,” he said decisively. “Here’s the deal. Last summer I took a group of guys out on my boat for a weekend cruise. All businessmen, clients of the bank—important clients. Had drinks, had some, uh, female company, played poker, fished. All fun, right? And one of my guests, we’ll call him John, wasn’t so good at cards the first night. He’s not from around here, but after he lost a couple grand at Texas Hold ’em, everyone warmed up to the guy. Liked him so much, in fact, that on the last night, just to give John a chance to get some of his money back, we all decided to raise the table stakes.”
    â€œLet me guess what happened next.”
    Blanchard nodded, giving a cold chuckle. “John’s luck got better. A lot better. After a while I had to issue some markers to a few people, which was okay by me.” He shrugged. “I am a lender, after all.”
    â€œAnd so now…,” I prompted.
    Blanchard slapped his meaty hand on his desk, suddenly furious. “And now those sonofabitches got together and decided they were played. They said John hustled them. And get this: They voted—they voted —that they shouldn’t have to pay their markers to me. I told them it wasn’t my fault, that no one made them keep betting, and that I had to pay their debts to John, but they don’t care .”
    â€œI don’t think this guy had to pay John anything, except maybe a fee to fleece his friends,” Alan observed.
    â€œJesus,” Blanchard muttered, bringing himself under control. “So. All right. I’ve got forty-three thousand bucks outstanding between four guys. I need you to go collect it. By whatever means necessary, capisci ?”
    â€œHe’s asking you to go beat up a bunch of local businessmen. Can you believe this guy?”
    â€œI may not be the right man for this particular job, Mr. Blanchard,” I replied slowly.
    â€œI’ll cut you in for ten percent of whatever you can squeeze out of those assholes,” Blanchard continued.