Read Online The List by Robert Whitlow - Free Book Online Page B

Heywood’s responsibilities never increased beyond overseeing a couple of young associates, and his professional frustration made him a difficult taskmaster.
    â€œRenny,” the short, balding lawyer barked as soon as Renny sat down, “I need you to give me a memo on current congressional initiatives that may affect our bank clients. We may need to mobilize some lobbying pressure.”
    Renny saw a vast haystack of federal government records looming before him, and he had no idea where the needle might be hidden. “Anything particular you want me to focus on?”
    â€œThat’s your job—to give me focus. I have to prepare a quarterly newsletter for our retainer clients, and I want to give them up-to-date information.”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œI need the memo by five o’clock Thursday.”
    Renny had logged on to the legal research network and was trying to unravel the labyrinth of House and Senate subcommittees that might be talking about banking when his secretary interrupted him. “Morris Hogan on line two.”
    Renny leaned back in his chair and picked up the phone. “Hey, Morris, how are you?”
    â€œFine for Monday. How is the life of the rich and famous?”
    â€œSince I’m neither, I can’t comment.”
    â€œCan you meet me at Yogi’s?”
    Renny looked at his watch. “Sure, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
    Morris Hogan, a big, blond-haired Duke graduate, worked as an investment adviser in the trust department of First Union, one of the larger banks in Charlotte. He and Renny became friends before Renny went to law school, and they maintained contact during the next three years. When Renny landed the job in Charlotte, Morris was the first person he called with the news. The two young men spent a lot of time together, eating, playing tennis, and arguing the respective merits of the Duke and U.N.C. Chapel Hill basketball teams.
    It seemed to Renny and Morris that every fourth person in Charlotte worked for a bank, and they often wondered who within a twenty-five-mile radius of Charlotte engaged in productive labor. Morris’s theory was that most of the money in the United States was counterfeit, printed at shopping center print shops and laundered through grocery stores. His proof was the redesigned hundred. He once held a crisp new bill up to Renny’s nose and presented his case: “Now tell me, does this look like legal tender for all debts, public and private, or mediocre play money? Would Ben Franklin consent to such a ludicrous likeness? Why, he would rather be struck by lightning!”
    Renny pulled into the restaurant parking lot and found an open space next to Morris’s Ford Explorer. Yogi’s served a major-league meal for lunch. No quiche of the day or asparagus salad feminized the menu. Hungry businessmen and construction workers could order a half-pound burger with enough fries and onion rings to lay down a serious oil slick in the largest stomach.
    Morris was waiting in one of the “cells,” a restaurant booth designed to look like a jail cell. Peanut shells littered the floor, a practice encouraged by the management to give credence to its antiestablishment mystique.
    â€œI just ordered you a spinach salad with avocado dressing,” Morris quipped. “How was the trip to Charleston?”
    â€œIt was OK, but there’s more hassle to my father’s estate than I expected.” Renny decided not to mention the terms of the will.
    Morris inspected his friend’s face. “Yeah, you do look like you’ve been negotiating with a group of terrorists. What’s up?”
    â€œNothing much. Heywood assigned me an impossible project, but that’s to be expected.” Renny paused then asked tentatively, “Do you know much about Swiss bank accounts?”
    â€œSome. Secret havens for money made by selling drugs, weapons, and contraband. You’re not