Mazekat 2.
Excitement coursing through my veins, I grab my cell with shaky fingers and pull up the text thread with my brother.
Tilly:Someone actually talked to me!
Tybs: You work in a bank, you speak to people every day.
Tilly: About the fundraiser.
Tybs: You should have led with that! That’s awesome! Are they donating anything? Did they buy a table? Should I call to thank them personally?
Tilly: Hey, brother, act like you’ve been here before. *wink* No need to call. But they did ask for detailed information regarding the charity involved, financial analysis, etc. If I can get others to stay on the phone instead of hanging up, they will probably ask for the same. Can you get that to me in a PDF that I can email to prospective donors?
My logic is sound, but between you and me, I don’t want anyone, even my brother, speaking with Wilson. I liked his voice. It was warm and rich and smooth, and it caught me off guard, to say the least. I’m 32 and have been working with the public for over a decade. I might not be the most brazen of women, but I can usually handle myself in a professional manner. That all went out the window when he answered my call. I was 14 again, flustered and gaping like a fish when one of the hot senior boys asked me to move out of the way.
Tybs:Good point. I’ll get it together this afternoon, you’ll have it first thing tomorrow. Which business was it?
Tilly: You’re not calling them. We don’t need a stalking charge.
Tybs: I’m not going to call them. Just curious.
Tilly: Kohlman Associates. I spoke with Mr. Wilson.
Tybs: Shit.
Tilly: Shit? Not shit. Someone listened to my whole spiel and inquired about more information. That’s a good thing.
Tybs: Usually.
Tilly: …
Tybs: Kohlman Associates is owned by Keenan Kohlman.
Tilly: Makes sense given the name.
Tybs: *rolling eye emoji*
Tybs: Mr. Kohlman might be an attorney, but he’s also a member of a motorcycle club.
Tilly: Ok…
Tybs: A criminal organization.
That doesn’t make sense. If they’re criminals, how is one of them a lawyer?
Tilly: I think someone fed you some bogus info, brother.
Tybs: I hate to turn away any donations, so…let’s just proceed with caution.
Tilly: Caution?
Tybs: Limit our interactions to phone and email and try to steer them towards a monetary donation only. I don’t think having a motorcycle club involved is the right look for our fundraiser. We’re trying to build Independence up, not bog it down in criminal enterprises.
I sit back at my desk at the bank and bite my bottom lip. I don’t like it. What he’s saying…
Tilly: Have you met any of them before? Or is this just gossip from the old lady that runs the rec center desk?
Tybs: Gladys is an Independence staple, the city practically grew around her. If anyone knows the ins and outs of our new home, it’s Gladys.
Tilly: I think you are old enough to know that you shouldn’t judge the caliber of a man by the opinions of others.
Tybs: Even through text, you sound like mom.
I smile despite the pinch in my heart. They’ve been gone for 14 years, but still, they influence us in every decision we make.
Tilly: Thank you! Perhaps we should just keep an open mind…
Tybs: Yeah, yeah. I’ll send the info before I leave today. We still on for dinner tonight?
Tilly: Duh…it’s Tandoori Tuesday. Or did I black out and it’s Wonton Wednesday?
Tybs: Sister dearest, I mean this with love…you need to get out more.
Tilly: Probably.
He’s not wrong, but I’d rather not dwell on the state of my personal life. Especially after following my brother to northern Kentucky to be his roommate in a three-bedroom rental, transferring bank locations for work, and realizing there isn’t a single person from my life before that I want to call or who would care about the happenings of my life…like how I’m considering changing Saucy Saturday to Sandwich Saturday.
My life is underwhelming. And food centric.
Tilly: See you at home.
Tybs: I didn’t say it before, but good job, Tilly. Thank you for helping me with this fundraiser. And making the move with me. Couldn’t imagine this new chapter in my life without you. Love you.
Aw. Just when I want to ponder ways to strangle him, he says sweet things like this. It’s like a form of self-preservation, a sixth sense he’s about to come to harm.
Tybs: And don’t forget to stop at the pharmacy for your gas pills and those special wipes. You know what Tandoori does to your guts.
His self-preservation is apparently still a work in progress.
“Knock, knock.” I hold back my sigh and glance up as Patrice comes into my office and sits down in front of my desk. Why not just knock? It makes noise. It alerts the occupant of impending human interaction. Why say the words and NOT knock? I have been here less than 2 months and unfortunately, this is low on the list of offenses Patrice has committed. The woman is…smarmy. And passive aggressive like no one I’ve ever met. She’s bitter that I transferred to this location as the branch manager since she was filling that role temporarily after the previous bank manager retired. The fact that the position was open for so long should have been her first clue that the bank did not find her to be a suitable permanent replacement. Still, she thinks I stole it from her, and she hasn’t been shy about telling me just that. The customers like her well enough, and no one on the staff has complained about her, but they haven’t been friendly with her either, that I’ve seen.
“Oh, Ms. Manager.” See? “Are you working for the bank or for your brother?” She asks with a predatory smile.
“I’m on lunch, Patrice.”
“Right. Right. Just thought I heard you talking to someone on the phone earlier about that little fundraiser your brother is hosting.”
“Through my shut door?”
“You speak loudly.” I do not, but whatever.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Did I hear you say Wilson?” I close my eyes before I roll them, taking a calming breath, I open them again and pin her with an unimpressed stare. “It’s just that I thought maybe it was Wilson from Kohlman’s and I felt it was my duty,” she places her hand over her long dead heart, “to warn you.”
“Warn me of what?” I know where this is going, seeing as my brother already mentioned the reputation of the motorcycle club.
“The Congressionals MC, of course.”
“The Congressionals?” I don’t know much about motorcycle clubs, other than they started after World War II to provide a brotherhood for inactive servicemen. There are some that are bad news, violent and criminal, but the same can be said for politicians and everyday citizens. And others provide a positive presence in their communities. I don’t know which category the Congressionals fall in, just yet, but based on my limited phone call with Wilson, I’d say they lean toward the latter.
“Are you an acquaintance of the Congressionals MC or Mr. Wilson?” Her lips pinch and her eyes narrow momentarily, like she sucked on a lemon, before she concentrates on smoothing out her overly made-up face.
“I’ve lived here all my life, Ms. Manager. I know just about everyone in Independence.”
I lean forward, that didn’t answer my question. “Do you know them personally?”
She hems and haws, before standing and running her hands down her pencil skirt. “I never,” she gasps dramatically. “I’m simply trying to help you navigate your new home and keep you from falling in with the wrong people.”
“Why are they the wrong people?”
She tilts her head to the side like a dog. “What?”
I speak slowly. “Why do you consider them the wrong people? What crimes have they committed? Drugs? Guns? Trafficking?”
She splutters and I know the answer. None of the above, at least not to her knowledge. I hate gossip. I hate inaccurate and biased gossip more. It’s amazing the tales we can weave about someone we’ve never met. And how those tales can be believed as fact by the ignorant.
“Thank you for looking out for me, Patrice, but I prefer to form my own opinions.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She steps toward the doorway, before stopping and glancing at me over her shoulder. “Be assured, if something happens to you because you didn’t heed my warning, know that I will take good care of the bank and its valued clients.” She walks out of my office, an exaggerated sway to her hips that I could never pull off. Mostly, because I could never wear the 5-inch heels she does. A moment later, I’m staring at my computer screen, unable to focus on a single word.
Did she just threaten me?