Free Barnstorm by Wayne; Page Page B

volunteered, “That’s the old
    Murphy farm. Gertrude Murphy runs it–all by herself. Puts her heart and soul into that place. She’ll never sell.”
    “Everyone has a price.”
    Knowing that it wouldn’t do any good, Mel still felt compelled to add, “Gertrude Murphy is not ‘everyone’.”
    “Spare me,” Robinson smirked. “You hold the mortgage. My research group says she’s late on her payments.”
    Sounding more sheepish than the words felt when first formed, Mel said, “Gerty’s good for it. Sure, she might be four or five months behind; but, corn crop this year gets her close to current.”
    Recognizing a lamb ready for the slaughter, Robinson ordered, “Foreclose, now. Before the crop comes in.”
    “This isn’t the big city, Mr. Robinson. Wouldn’t sit well with folks from ‘round these parts.”
    Robinson stared down the overmatched yokel banker, saying, “When that freeway off-ramp is announced by the State Transportation Department, development in this entire area is going to skyrocket. I’m not missin’ out on this golden opportunity. Narrow window to make a killing. I got screwed on one of these last year. Never again. She owes forty thousand dollars. No way am I losin’ out on millions because of some nobody, down-home folk from ‘round these-here parts.”
    The mimic of Mel’s rural upbringing didn’t sit well, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He knew that Cleveland was all-in on this and he wasn’t holding any of the cards.
    Robinson continued, “Foreclose. Now. You seem to forget that we acquired your lousy, worthless bank. Your time is up.”
    Mel finally found a crack of an opening. Clearing his throat, meekly he said, “Not quite that easy Mr. Robinson. Contract says we give thirty days’ notice, then another thirty days before a foreclosure is finalized.”
    “Then I suggest we start the clock ticking.” Robinson packed up his briefcase. This meeting was over.
    Options now closed to him, and probably Gerty as well, Mel tried one last time, “But-”
    Quick on the take-down, Robinson cut him off, “--But nothing. Call Sheriff Bubba, or whoever the hick constable is in this one-horse town and schedule a sheriff’s sale. Sixty days.”
    Turning to exit, Robinson whirled around, pointing a finger at Mel, and in no uncertain terms said, “Lousy, backwater banker. Courthouse steps. Sixty days. Or you are fired!”
    Alone, former bank president Mel Smith, slumped shoulders, leaned both hands on the plat maps on the table. The demoted Branch Manager lowered his head in defeat.
    Robinson strutted directly to his Mercedes. He removed the parking ticket from his windshield. With zero to negative emotion, he tore it in half, and dropped it to the ground. Finding the photographer on the bench, iPhone to face, leg still bouncing, he yelled, “You coming or you want to walk?”

Chapter Ten
    Trip was at his chores. The first few days were spent pulling and hoeing weeds. Surprising what a difference that made. Gerty’s barnyard and area around the house and picket fence looked much improved. However, the absence of weeds actually made the house picket fence look worse. The straggle of weeds had previously obscured broken stakes and peeling paint. Fixing and painting the fence would stay on Trip’s fix-it list. All in good time. Gerty had suggested some paint training might be a good idea. Someone with as many Band-Aids as Trip should probably not be on a twenty-foot ladder sloshing paint on Gerty’s house. Gerty had not yet discovered Trip’s fear of heights.
    Gerty thought the board fence surrounding the barnyard would provide the necessary experience before tackling something more intricate. Trip was wearing an old, long-sleeve white shirt and grubby work pants. Gerty had delivered boxes of clothes for Trip to pick through. Having dropped in with nothing but the Buzz work shirt on his back and blue jeans, Trip now had a decent wardrobe. The fit wasn’t perfect,