DEAD MEN IN TOWN - Concluding part.

(If you haven't read the earlier parts of this story, click on the title.)

Dead Man looked disappointed. “Apparently, your accountant isn’t very smart,” was his rejoinder. As I started the car he added, “Do keep the Christmas Eve date.”

First thing I did on reaching home was to visit Koottil Bank’s website. Photo of the ‘special safe’ was quite prominent. There was one of Joseph Koottil Sr. as well, wearing or bearing a different body of course. Picture of the former Chief Minister placing one hundred and one rupees in the safe, was also given.

How much money that iron box contains, I wondered. Five million? Ten? More? As a good citizen, I should report the matter to the authorities. I was aware that my reward would be twenty per cent of the unaccounted money seized. That should be sufficient to get my project off the ground. After pondering for two days, I decided that to succeed one had to take risks, and contacted a senior officer in the Income Tax Department.

The raid came the next Saturday afternoon.

According to the media, it was the largest search of its kind in Cochin till then. The bank premises and the three Koottil residences were combed simultaneously. The operation lasted well into the night.

Front page headline in next morning’s Cochin Chronicle summed up the exercise, “Koottil Bank Raid – MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.” The only unaccounted money the tax sleuths unearthed was the former Chief Minister’s contribution. I couldn’t claim my share of Rs.20.20 even if I wanted to because the officials had ignored the find.

The aftermath of the raid was tumultuous. People from all walks of life, banker’s associations, and trade unions protested against what was generally considered as an unwarranted offensive action against a financial institution with an impeccable record.

Newspapers and TV channels picked up the story. Suddenly Koottil Bank was in the national limelight. A prominent analyst wrote an Op-Ed article in Economic Mirror titled “Koottil – A Rock Among Smaller Indian Banks.” Speculative reports about Koottil going public, international banks approaching them with tie-up proposals and so on were published almost daily. The financial community developed a sudden interest in local banks and big players began buying available shares on the quiet.

I was on fear mode. On couple of nights I dreamt of my mutilated body floating around in the Cochin backwaters. Now even the Income Tax people were unhappy with me.

Days dragged on and nothing happened.

Koottils might have let me go, I felt, because they hadn’t lost anything. Or had they taken a hit and kept quiet about it? Some one could have cleaned up the ‘special safe’ ahead of the raid. There were other possibilities as well. A tip off from the Income Tax Department couldn’t be ruled out. May be Dead Man had given his sons a ghostly warning. Or, perhaps, he had bluffed me in the first place.

On a sudden impulse I went to Neptune on Christmas Eve, not really expecting Dead Man there. But he was at my table with the same body he had on at our first meeting, and greeted me warmly.

“You are,” I said suspiciously after the orders were placed, “having the same body. I thought they came from the top of the pile.”

Dead Man laughed. “Money,” he said, “can do wonders. Now I have three bodies reserved for me at the cemetery. A small problem is that the clothes on them can’t be changed. They’re pre-fixed.”

He went on talking. In two months he had practically become the boss of St. Patrick’s cemetery. That very night a dozen souls including the supervisor were in town enjoying at his expense. He had the freedom to go out whenever he wanted. But he was unhappy.

“Why?” I asked.

“I visited home in the morning,” he said. “As a spirit, of course. The fight between my daughters – in – law has flared up sooner than I expected. My wife is too simple to handle them. The sons would succumb to their wives and the Bank will be wrecked.”

“That’s the problem with several family business establishments,” I said sympathetically.

“I’m planning to tell the boys to sell out and go their separate ways. Now we’re getting fantastic offers.”

“Tell them?”

“There’s a method of communication.”

“Fourth generation bank, and doing very well,” I said. “Aren’t you sentimental?”

“Sentimentality without discipline is dangerous.”

We drank in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked, “Didn’t you bluff me about the ‘special safe’?”

“I told you once,” the reply came with vehemence, “that I’m an honest dead man. The money was there and I needed it. The day after we met I found an accomplice. We took what was required and I warned my sons to clean up. I knew you would squeal.”

“Look here-”

“OK, I’ll rephrase it – I knew your patriotism would overcome particularly with the twenty per cent reward.”

I looked away.

“Have you found the money for your project?” he asked.

“No.”

“Thought so. Tell you what. Apply to our bank for a venture capital loan. Say 1.5 millions. New players have a tendency to underestimate project cost. Employ a consultant the bank recommends.”

“But,” I expressed my doubt, “will they help me after what happened?”

“Oh,” Dead Man was exasperated. “You’re a technician, not a businessman. Do you know how much market value you’ve added to the Bank? They’ll give you the money all right. Of course, the project has to be good.”

The project was excellent. Perhaps, I thought, I should follow his advice.

“Are you really a dead man?” I asked suddenly.

“An entrepreneur who cannot decide things by himself, is unlikely to succeed,” he stated and ordered another round of drinks.

Ends.

œ

DEAD MEN IN TOWN - Part 2.

(If you missed the first part, click on the title.)

He had turned around, studying the crowd. “Oh, no,” he exclaimed suddenly and looked at me. “He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Our supervisor. The one in blue checked shirt at the bar counter. He’s drinking water because he doesn’t have money.”

I saw the chap who had a faint resemblance to Frankenstein.

“You’re bluffing,” I said. “How can he identify all the bodies stocked at St. Patrick’s?”

“Look, I’m an honest dead man. There is some kind of a hologram on these bodies with the home cemetery code. He can read that.”

“But how -”

He interrupted me saying, “These are highly technical matters. I’m not competent to explain. But help me now. Apart from the main entrance is there any other door?”

“There’s one from the side street. I don’t think they allow exit that way.”

Our bearer was serving at the next table. Dead Man told him to get the bill.

“Is the supervisor looking this side?” he asked after some time and drained his glass.

“No.”

“Tell you what. I’ll wait by the side door. The waiter is taking too long. When he comes, direct him there. That’ll also help me to exit that way. See you.”

He moved away quickly before I could respond.

When the bearer came, I sent him to the side door. He returned after a while to report that the ‘gentleman’ couldn’t be found. You’re a gullible ass, I told myself and ordered anther drink.

‘Frankenstein’ was still at the bar counter as I was leaving. I had half a mind to tell him that an AWOL from his cemetery was with me till a short while back.

When I came out there was a hushed ‘pssst.’

It was Dead Man.

Not again, I whispered to myself and said aloud, “Thought you were gone.”

“How could I? You were to have drinks on me but end up paying. That’s not the done thing.”

Very correct, I said silently.

“That stupid bearer took too long and I couldn’t go on waiting there. How much was it?”

“Never mind.”

“You have to tell me,” Dead Man said. “Come, let’s go.”

“Where?”

“I’ve to pass your car en route to the cemetery.”

That’s it, I thought; five hundred meters and I can be rid of this creature.

“At the bar,” he said as we were walking, “I could have signed. Now how will I pay?”

“Forget it.”

“Of course not." Koottils always pay up and also collect what is due to them. Tell you what. We meet here on Christmas Eve. Then I can relax. We’ll have cocktails and dinner and I’ll foot the entire expense.”

Not again, I thought. “Christmas is still two months away,” I said.

“Oh! Then how about the day after tomorrow? I’ll sneak out again.”

“No,” I protested. “Let’s keep it Christmas Eve. Tentative.”

“You won’t turn up.”

I didn’t deny that. We carried on in silence for a minute or so. Then Dead Man stopped abruptly and I followed suit automatically.

“We’ll settle the account tonight itself,” he said. “If you need more money I can arrange that also. I mean big money.”

“How big?”

“Say, half a million rupees provided you have a good project. It’ll be an interest-bearing loan. Amortization on easy terms.”

Strange coincidence, I thought. Or, had he selected me after doing a background check? “What I need,” I said, “is something like a million rupees.”

Dead Man considered that for a moment and said, “OK. That would mean more interest inflow than I require. May be I’ll give the excess to charity.”

I was almost sure that it was all a joke. “Why do dead men need money?”

“Signing in my son’s name would be exposed sooner or later. I must be able to pay directly. You’ll deposit the interest with restaurants I stipulate in the names I tell you. We meet once a month to review.”

He pulled me to the outer edge of the footpath and went on to explain. He would allot amounts to the cemetery supervisor and others according to the cooperation they extend; they could sign till the credit runs out. Kind of Dead Man’s Debit Card. Possibly the area supervisor for cemeteries and his boss would be covered as well. Thus Dead Man would buy freedom to roam around at will. “Money talks even in cemeteries,” he concluded.

“But,” I expressed my doubt, “how’ll you manage the money in the first place? You’re dead.”

“Yes, I’m a dead banker who walks, talks and drinks. Often, apparent reality is the relevant one. You drive me to Koottil Bank HQ and en route sum up your project in five minutes. If I’m convinced that the project is viable, you wait in the car and I deliver the cash. In either case drop me back at St. Patrick’s.”

My strange companion went on to explain that he knew all the security passwords and safe combinations of the bank. He could easily get in to the building at any time by the executive lift, which could be operated either by smart card or punched ID. He was the only one who knew the double code of their special safe; his two sons were privy to only one each.

‘Special Safe’ was where all their unaccounted money was kept. His grandfather had bought it when he started the bank. It was decommissioned after a new strong room was built. My ‘friend’ had it transferred ceremoniously to the reception area as a memento and placed a photograph of the founder on top of it. The much-publicized function was presided over by the then Chief Minister of Kerala who kept one hundred and one rupees inside it saying that a bank safe should never be empty.

“Why didn’t you keep your father’s picture also?” I asked.

“That would have diffused the focus. My photo won’t be there either.”

The reception was apparently a low security area and nobody paid any attention to the safe. That was precisely the effect, which had been planned for. All the black money was shifted into it. This included funds of politicians, business tycoons and other important personages. There was lending of unaccounted funds too. Ten percent of the profits from that operation went to charities.

“But won’t the missing money be noticed?” I asked.

“Because of secrecy concerns, the infrequent physical verifications are quick and not very accurate. The last one was a month before I died suddenly. Damned cardiac arrest. My sons won’t know how much I had drawn during that period.”

I was flabbergasted. Shortage of one million rupees may not even be noticed!

“What about documentation?” I asked.

“No-fuss loan,” he answered and started walking again. “I hand over the cash tonight if your project sounds good. No papers. Conditions apply, though. But no small print, no hidden costs.”

“How can you,” I asked, “evaluate a project on the basis of a five minute verbal presentation?”

“That’s all it takes for a good lender to decide on an expression of interest. The rest are details.”

“How can you be sure of repayment?”

“You would be surprised. We have one of the best recovery rates among all banks in the country. Several factors are involved. Basically, most people want to repay loans. We are careful in lending. Funds utilization is closely monitored. We also give necessary guidance and timely assistance. In fact we walk a client through his project. Main thing is to ensure that debt servicing capability is maintained.”

After a brief pause he continued, and in the process answered a question that was in my mind, “Like some of the modern banks, we too are a bit goon-tech on the rare defaulters. Now I can even send a few spooks after them. For those who squeal on us the treatment is more severe.”

I had to make a quick decision. Funds were offered without hassles to implement my dream project. But I had to deal with a dead financier and in black money.

We reached the car. “Without papers,” I said, “the source can't be shown. Don’t want to be in trouble with Income Tax. Thanks anyway.”

Dead Man looked disappointed. “Apparently, your accountant isn’t very smart,” was his rejoinder. As I started the car he added, “Do keep the Christmas Eve date.”

To be continued.

DEAD MEN IN TOWN. Part 1.

The evening rush was on. I found a parking space about five hundred yards away from my favorite restaurant and started walking along the crowded pavement.

“Excuse me, sir,” someone said from behind.

Turning around I saw a middle-aged person who quickly caught up with me. “Have they opened the Neptune?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Good,” the man sounded pleased. “Do you happen to know how the place is?”

“Nice ambiance, tasty food, clean liquor. Prices are a bit steep though.”

“Well,” the stranger responded, “there’s always a premium on quality.”

“True,” I agreed.

The man followed me into the bar and seeing the crowd, said, “There’s no place to sit.”

“I’ve a reservation,” I responded without thinking. I went to Neptune occasionally and did some problem solving over dinner and three whiskies. Tonight’s agenda was the one million rupees I still had to raise as part of the promoter’s equity for my ambitious biotechnology project.

“If no one is joining you may I use your table?” the stranger requested.

I couldn’t say no. After we settled down my new found companion said, “You’re right. The atmosphere’s good. They were planning to open by Independence Day when I died.”

“Oh,” I whispered absentmindedly, looking for a bearer. All of them were busy. Finally, one carrying a tray of drinks noticed. He smiled and nodded.

When I turned to the chap sitting opposite, something clicked inside my brain. “What did you say?” I asked.

“Sorry it slipped out. I said when I died -”

“You mean that you are a ghost?”

“Not technically. Ghosts are shapeless spirits. Don’t you see that I’m bearing a body? It would be more appropriate to say that I’m a dead man.”

May be he was putting me on. Nevertheless I took out my handkerchief and wiped off sweat that had appeared suddenly on my forehead and neck.

“Don’t be frightened,” Dean Man said. “We’re quite harmless compared to many of the living.”

Perhaps. But I was counting my options. There was none, really. If I left he might accompany me. I would rather be at a known place with real people than outside on the street with a dead man, friendly or otherwise.

The waiter came. That was a relief till he asked me, “Sir, are you all right?”

“Looks as though,” the being sitting across the table said, laughing, “he saw a ghost.”

I gave him a dirty look and told the bearer, “Get me vodka on rocks. Double large.” If the chap was surprised at the change from my usual he didn’t show it and turned to Dead Man who ordered, “Grand Old Parr. Large. Cold water, no ice.”

The ‘fellow’ has taste, I thought.

“Sorry, sir,” the waiter apologized. “We’ve no premium Scotch.”

“Red Label?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’ll be signing. Koottil Bank account. Joseph Koottil Jr.”

“Very well, sir.”

When we were alone Dead Man explained, “That’s my elder son. Can easily duplicate his signature. In fact I taught him to sign. He hardly visits this place.”

At least his bill won’t be dumped on me, I thought with a sense of relief.

“Might have heard of us if you stay in Cochin. Fourth generation bank. Low-key operation, but fairly big and high tech. I advanced a bridge loan to the group that owns this place.”

I knew of the bank. It was in the short-list of possible financiers for my project.

Dead Man obviously noticed my continued silence. “Don’t be so concerned,” he said. “Everyday people come across entities like me without realizing it. If I hadn’t inadvertently blurted out my status, you wouldn’t have known.”

That was true. But the problem was that I knew.

“There are,” Dead Man said, “others like me around. From St. Patrick’s cemetery alone – that’s where I am buried – three of us are out tonight.”

Unconsciously I looked around the bar. Everybody seemed to be living human beings like me.

Drinks arrived and I took a gulp. My companion sipped his whiskey and said, “I’m on pins and needles.”

I looked at him questioningly.

“Sneaked out without permission. The cemetery supervisor may be on the prowl. If caught I’ve had it.”

Warmed with vodka I asked, “Why, what would happen?”

“We’re allowed only two outings per year – Christmas and Easter. First offence attracts cancellation of the privilege for five years. For repeat, the ban would be sine die.” He laughed suddenly and added, “Imagine a dead man using that phrase!”

I didn’t find it amusing. “Why don’t you,” I asked, “return quickly before getting caught?”

He shook his head and answered, “No way. I want to celebrate my birthday.”

“Oh, well, happy birthday,” I wished him, feeling rather stupid.

“Thank you. By the way, the drinks are on me.”

I ignored that and asked, “Shouldn’t you be visiting your family?”

“Thought of that. But the problem is that if they forgot my birthday I would feel bad. If they celebrate also I would feel bad.”

I finished my drink and ordered another. Dead Man followed suit and continued, “There are other problems as well. I can visit the family only as a spirit. That’s faster of course. But to do that now I’ll have to go back to the cemetery and return this body. Then I can’t drink. Spirits can’t have spirits!” He laughed, rather sadly.

“You mean that even when you sneak out they give you a body?”

“That’s how it’s programmed. It’s not case sensitive. Anyone who is leaving is offered a clothed carcass. Take it or leave it.”

“Not one’s own body?”

“No, I think that’s reserved for the Resurrection. This is from top of the stack. It goes by size. I think they are sterilized, micro-shrunk and stored. Some process blows them to actual size before issuing.”

After a couple of minutes Dead Man said wistfully, “I would have been sixty today!”

The body he was sporting didn’t look that old. But then the program matched only the size and not the age.

He had turned around, studying the crowd. “Oh, no,” he exclaimed suddenly and looked at me. “He’s here.”

To be continued shortly.

Click on title for part 2.