trust money. We’ve started a fund to manage money for trusts for our bank and some smaller regional banks here in Oklahoma. Charleston’s 5 3/4, 30-year tax exempt is highly attractive this month. The pictures are to kick off a promo, to show how we cross the continent to find our customers the best deals.”
He paused, listening.
“I’m afraid we can’t get in until late in the day. Perhaps we could finish by 4. Why, yes, we’ll be there overnight, at the Omni. Certainly, let’s have a drink. Yes, sir, look forward to meeting you.”
Donn hung up, shot a fist into the air and hooted, “Hot damn!”
Boyd looked down at his shiny new business card, which read, Cherokee Trust Funds, Boyd Chailland, account executive. He chuckled. While they were driving to the printers, Donn had challenged him to come up with a name that might appeal to Oklahoma residents. He thought of his roommate at the Academy from Cherokee, Okla., and how proud he was of the Indian tradition. When he suggested it, Donn thought for a moment, opened the Wall Street Journal that seemed always by his side, checked the mutual fund section to see if there was already one by that name and then said it was perfect.
“It sounds familiar,” Donn said later, looking down at his own card, which identified him as fund manager. “People will think they’ve heard of it.”
“Is there really a First Bank?” Boyd asked, looking at their logo beneath Cherokee Funds.
“Yes.”
“Is it OK to just use their logo on a business card like this?”
“No. Illegal as hell,” Pam said. “Hope they don’t find out.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHARLESTON
Just wearing the Rolex gave Boyd a different feeling. Heavy on his wrist, it was a constant reminder of the $10,000 Pamela had said it had cost the drug dealer who had run afoul of the U.S. Department of Justice. He tipped up the green bottle of imported beer and looked out on Charleston Harbor. A large, rusty freighter moved slowly past, headed toward the Atlantic. Looking back up the river he could see others ships loading and unloading.
“I had no idea. Charleston seems to be quite the place, exportwise,” said Donn, standing with Cooper Jordan and looking out the full-length window on the fifth story of the Planters National Bank Building.
“We’re very proud of our community, Mr. Wilde. And its prospects,” Cooper Jordan said, sipping bourbon. His words drew slowly out, as if carefully considered and individually crafted. Their bond-buying completed, Boyd, Donn and Pamela had been invited into Jordan’s office for “a late afternoon libation.”
“Sir, the smell of profit is heavy in the air,” Donn announced, sipping his scotch, rattling the ice in a crystal glass.
“Well, indeed, there is opportunity here,” Jordan said pleasantly.
Pamela was occupied with two younger suits talking about interest-rate fluctuations. Two bourbons had her pretty much in stride, and she was animated and convincing as the lawyer and accountant she really was. The smart satin blouse she wore allowed an interested observer to realize how each of her breasts had a center of gravity some distance out from her chest wall, and how each tiny movement of her torso caused a reverberating counter-movement of the breast, leveraged by that distance. Both of these young bankers seemed to be interested observers.
Boyd moved to the corner, where the window allowed a view back toward the Battery, the original settlement where pre-Civil War homes still stood. The bright pastel homes, contrasting with the dark green of the massive live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, made for an appealing view. He didn’t need to imagine the horse-drawn carriages of old, they were still there, bearing tourists and outnumbering cars on a sleepy Friday afternoon.
“The banker’s dilemma in Oklahoma, Cooper, is what to do with all that oil money,” Donn said. “The debacle of
He paused, listening.
“I’m afraid we can’t get in until late in the day. Perhaps we could finish by 4. Why, yes, we’ll be there overnight, at the Omni. Certainly, let’s have a drink. Yes, sir, look forward to meeting you.”
Donn hung up, shot a fist into the air and hooted, “Hot damn!”
Boyd looked down at his shiny new business card, which read, Cherokee Trust Funds, Boyd Chailland, account executive. He chuckled. While they were driving to the printers, Donn had challenged him to come up with a name that might appeal to Oklahoma residents. He thought of his roommate at the Academy from Cherokee, Okla., and how proud he was of the Indian tradition. When he suggested it, Donn thought for a moment, opened the Wall Street Journal that seemed always by his side, checked the mutual fund section to see if there was already one by that name and then said it was perfect.
“It sounds familiar,” Donn said later, looking down at his own card, which identified him as fund manager. “People will think they’ve heard of it.”
“Is there really a First Bank?” Boyd asked, looking at their logo beneath Cherokee Funds.
“Yes.”
“Is it OK to just use their logo on a business card like this?”
“No. Illegal as hell,” Pam said. “Hope they don’t find out.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHARLESTON
Just wearing the Rolex gave Boyd a different feeling. Heavy on his wrist, it was a constant reminder of the $10,000 Pamela had said it had cost the drug dealer who had run afoul of the U.S. Department of Justice. He tipped up the green bottle of imported beer and looked out on Charleston Harbor. A large, rusty freighter moved slowly past, headed toward the Atlantic. Looking back up the river he could see others ships loading and unloading.
“I had no idea. Charleston seems to be quite the place, exportwise,” said Donn, standing with Cooper Jordan and looking out the full-length window on the fifth story of the Planters National Bank Building.
“We’re very proud of our community, Mr. Wilde. And its prospects,” Cooper Jordan said, sipping bourbon. His words drew slowly out, as if carefully considered and individually crafted. Their bond-buying completed, Boyd, Donn and Pamela had been invited into Jordan’s office for “a late afternoon libation.”
“Sir, the smell of profit is heavy in the air,” Donn announced, sipping his scotch, rattling the ice in a crystal glass.
“Well, indeed, there is opportunity here,” Jordan said pleasantly.
Pamela was occupied with two younger suits talking about interest-rate fluctuations. Two bourbons had her pretty much in stride, and she was animated and convincing as the lawyer and accountant she really was. The smart satin blouse she wore allowed an interested observer to realize how each of her breasts had a center of gravity some distance out from her chest wall, and how each tiny movement of her torso caused a reverberating counter-movement of the breast, leveraged by that distance. Both of these young bankers seemed to be interested observers.
Boyd moved to the corner, where the window allowed a view back toward the Battery, the original settlement where pre-Civil War homes still stood. The bright pastel homes, contrasting with the dark green of the massive live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, made for an appealing view. He didn’t need to imagine the horse-drawn carriages of old, they were still there, bearing tourists and outnumbering cars on a sleepy Friday afternoon.
“The banker’s dilemma in Oklahoma, Cooper, is what to do with all that oil money,” Donn said. “The debacle of
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