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.
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