Dark Side of Bunker Hill

By John Patrick Davey

The deathof an old lady in Cambridge sets off a pattern of deadly behavior leading to the murder of a retired Judge on Boston's Bunker Hill and the mysterious death of a disbarred attorney. An illegal plan to take over a multi million dollar insurance trust falls apart when the planners allow blackmail and greed to develop into murder. The plot from the beginning, is peopled by characters intent on cheating each other forgetting that main prize is the trust's millions managed by a trio of old men. In turn they stun the conspirators by pulling a clever scheme of `bait and switch' surpassing the ingenuity of their antagonists. The locus is Boston and it's Homicide Unit which leads the reader through the old city's `Freedom Trail' after the killers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452015668

John Patrick Davey

The author during his career as a trial lawyer, has served as an Assistant Attorney General for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and as a Prosecutor for the Massachusetts Special Crime Commission. These tours of duty have well prepared him to describe with authenticity the psychological behavior motivating thieves and professional con men.. He is a `Triple Eagle' with a bachelor's degree in English from Boston College and is also a graduate of it's Law School. He lives with his wife Ellen, who is also an Attorney in Westwood, Mass..

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Chapter One

An anxious Matthew Doolin, almost blinded by the wind driven January blizzard, drove a loaded car carrier at midnight into Boston’s Grove Hall. He intended to unload six junk cars at a scrap yard he knew to be close by. Nervous sweat stained his shirt brought on by the fear of being shot by one of the young blacks who roved the streets killing anyone threatening their drug dealing. Grove Hall in recent years had become a killing ground for the drug trade.

His only small comfort was that the blizzard had emptied the streets of humans, including he hoped, the gang bangers, which reduced to some degree his fear of being shot. This was no place for a white man and it was his bad luck to be squinting through a windshield laced with driving snow looking for the side street where the scrap yard was located. Panic, was setting in as he thought somehow he’d passed it. I’ve got to be a world class asshole. he thought, Pushing this heap through this shithole neighborhood.

A Glock 18 automatic pistol lay beside him on the passenger seat, which would he hoped guaranty him safe passage. Suddenly, through the whiteout, he spotted the street and he jerked the truck to the left, forcing its tires over the curb and into a parking area.

Pocketing the Glock, he climbed down from the cab and left the engine running. He staggered through ankle deep slush to a door on which scrawled hand painted letters read, Ace Auto Recycling Depot.

As he reached for the door it swung open, silhouetting the body of a huge black man in the opening. Without a word of greeting, he ushered Doolin inside and slammed the door shut. Turning to his visitor he snarled, I told you before Matthew, there’s no fucking way I’ll take them!

They were two opposites in appearance. The black man, who towered over his visitor, wore only a tee shirt covering a massive chest exposing tattooed arms of roped muscle. The smaller man was obviously out of place in the shack, dressed in a business suit and tasseled black loafers.

The roar of the wind and the clacking of the diesel made them shout to be heard. The large man leaned over shifting his face close the other’s and in a voice contorted with anger, shouted, Look asshole! I told you before to stay away from here. I’m fucked if I’m going to take another car from you. You’re radioactive. The Auto Squad has been up my ass all week checking to see if I’ve got any of your shit boxes in my yard. The last three you dumped on me were so fucking hot I had to run them straight to the Shredder before the Cops got wind.

A stricken look filled Doolin’s face and he immediately responded, shouting over the noise. Jesus Joe, you can’t leave me with that rack of iron sitting outside. I’ve got to get rid of it tonight. Some prick dropped a dime and the word’s out that I’m back in business. The Court made it clear: If I get caught taking one more donated car, they’ll have my ass in front of a Judge tomorrow. Christ, you made a bundle on all the other loads.

Matthew, I’m giving it to you straight. If your ass isn’t out of here with that pile of iron in two minutes I’ll call the Auto Squad myself. Conning the suckers to donate a car to help crippled kids was clever but you had to get greedy. You fucked the deal by grabbing all the dough. The cops think I’m your partner and are living with me. They’ve checked the VIN of every piece of iron in the yard. Take that fucking load to Chelsea—get it out of here! Back it into Chelsea Creek. The Guineas over the years have dumped a fleet of iron into that swamp and never got caught. Too bad the Quincy Quarries got filled; you could lose a battleship in there.

Moving towards the door, he continued Matthew without you I’ve got headaches enough keeping my nose clean with all this new environmental bullshit. The ‘Save the Planet’ crowd dreams up a new ball breaking regulation a week. Just to pull my chain, Lieutenant Maloney and his Boy Scouts show up unannounced hoping to catch my hand in the cookie jar. Forget it! I’ve got no more business with you. Opening the door a blast of frozen air filled the room as he vigorously ushered his visitor out.

For Doolin, only a few years ago, disposing of a car for client who wanted it to disappear was a fairly easy matter. The computer changed all that. For anyone who wanted them, auto records were instantly available through computers which traced them from birth to their ultimate destiny. Still—for a fee, the junk yard’s crusher could screw up the computer, by squeezing a vehicle into a block of untraceable scrap.

The rejection by Ace was a setback he hadn’t anticipated. It created a problem which needed immediate resolution. It had to be resolved now. He had to dump the six jalopies on the carrier somewhere. Donated to his ‘Klunkers for Kids’ scam by well intended citizens, who were motivated more by greed than charity, allowed him to have no guilt about conning them. His philosophy was simple–—everyone made out. Cars he couldn’t unload for cash he ran to the Providence shredder to be ground into smithereens. It was neat. He got some cash. The shredder got raw material and the Donor got a warm fuzzy feeling of largesse with a tax deduction. So the kids got shit he mused, but so what. The little bastards had plenty of legitimate charities looking out for them

Legitimate charities kept a wary eye on his operation as they watched him cut into their base. They wanted him arrested for fraud and their complaints were answered by the Attorney General. By Court order he was out of business and the last six were up on the semi which he thought Ace would buy, leaving with now with a problem of disposal. What to do with them had him confounded.

Not only were the six a problem, but a he had borrowed the semi from his cousin Vinnie and promised to return it tonight. Vinnie borrowed the rig without permission from his boss in exchange for Doolin giving him half the money Ace would pay him. Getting the empty truck back by midnight was a key part of the deal and if he screwed up, he faced a likely beating…

Fuck Vinnie, he thought. I can’t make it happen. I’ll leave it down the street and the greasers who live around here will think the Tooth Fairy made a visit. It’ll be stripped to its frame in an hour and the shit boxes will disappear by morning. I’ll tell Vinnie the semi was stolen while I was with in with Simpson. He can try to cover his ass with his boss.

A sudden surge of wind and squall of snow made steering the rig impossible and after three hundred yards he braked and dropped out of the cab and began to walk away. The clacking of the diesel pistons echoed behind him as he slogged through the snow. At an all night diner he snagged a cab to drive him home.

Shivering in his bedroom he stripped off his wet clothes and as the phone rang he listened to Vinnie’s screaming voice filled the room. The voice demanded he pick up the phone and answer. In a moment if weakness he almost picked up the phone to tell Vinnie someone stole it, and then thought better of it. Fuck Vinnie he thought. Imagine the nerve of that selfish little prick, jabbing me for half the deal just for the use of the truck. Shit, it wasn’t his truck. Serves him right that Ace turned us down.

Vinnie, his voice hoarse with anger, recited a litany of the exquisite torture he was going to visit on Matthew if the truck didn’t show up.

Yawning at his reflection in the window, he said to his image, No sense Matthew in losing sleep over Vinnie. I’ll grab some sleep and figure some new moves in the morning. Pouring himself two fingers of Irish, he tossed them back and went peacefully to sleep.

*

Matthew Doolin for most of his adult life was a con man who operated scams on the gullible that made up a good part of humanity. At his core he was a thief. Not a thief in a pedestrian sense, like a burglar or a car thief. Now Matthew worked as a professional grifter and spent most of his waking hours designing ways to separate good citizens from their money. As a very young man he discovered that humans have in their psyche a gene that salivates when they believe they are about to get something for nothing. With very little inducement they will enter into a state of greedy euphoria at the thought of their anticipated good fortune. The moment the ‘mark’ believes he is on the way to a quick unearned buck he loses his common sense and willingly becomes the con man’s victim.

The next morning he lay in bed facing his future. It was a bust out picking up cash at the junk yard and the present state of his finances caused an itchy rash to bloom over much of his body. He was five months behind on his mortgage and he owed the shylock Owen Madden a few thousand. He stared out the window of his condo onto the frozen Charles River he wondered what the fuck he was doing hanging around Boston. His welcome in this town had worn thin and Florida beckoned.

Retrieving the Boston Globe from the front door he thumbed through the paper and noticed the obituary of a smiling old lady with a name similar to an aunt of his late mother. He called his sister and learned that the old lady was his great aunt Dolly MacNeill. His interest became more than passing when he was told old Dolly died loaded.

A wake or Memorial Service is not the usual venue in which a con man’s talent is deployed. What the hell, he thought, ‘if she left an old husband he might in his moment of sorrow need a friendly shoulder to cry on. Words, like old and loaded", always warmed the cockles of his larcenous heart. Jotting down the name of the funeral home, he dressed in an appropriately dark suit, planning to visit the funeral parlor for the afternoon viewing. His experience taught him that older people in their grief often became imprudent and parted with their most intimate secrets including how much cash was available in their bank accounts.

He knew that this trip could, like others, possibly turn into a waste of time but at the moment nothing else beckoned. Maybe if he got lucky he’d bump into a freshly minted widow or a newly divorced wife, who with a little attention and some sex might open their purses in gratitude.

His true expertise however was more sophisticated than diddling widows. In the early 80’s he acquired a reasonable amount of expertise in analyzing the inner financial structure of corporations. For two semesters he attended the Wharton School of Management before washing out. Following that in 1982 he worked as a ‘boiler room’ hustler for a firm of Wall Street corporate pirates. The skill at which he was most adept was luring corruptible Board members, with promises of great rewards, into shady activities, making them susceptible to blackmail. Bribes, booze or broads were the tools of his trade.

His employer was swept up in the junk bond scandals of the 80’s, and the subsequent indictments ended his Wall Street career. He was never a target of the Grand Jury but the FBI bled him for months to rat out his co-workers. With Wall Street history, to survive he foraged about chasing one scurrilous venture after another.

Dolly’s total burial ceremony was allocated to a two hour showing that day to be followed by quick memorial service at the funeral home the next morning. Dolly’s putative fortune was the sole reason on this raw winter day for him to cross the Charles to Cambridge. Arriving by cab at the Central Square funeral home he was surprised to find he was the only mourner.

Standing by the open coffin was a short, fat bald man who in a syrupy voice informed Matthew that he was Oliver Tingle the undertaker and embracing Matthew, led him to within inches of the deceased. Isn’t she lovely? Tingle whispered in his ear. We do a beautiful job don’t you think? You should have seen what she looked like when they dropped her off. She looked like a refugee from Bangladesh. Without giving Matthew a chance to reply he turned quickly and grasping his arm in a surprisingly vice like grip said hopefully, You are family or a relative?" Matthew’s protective antennae immediately swung into action. Undertakers to him were the consummate con men only they with the blessing of the law were granted a license to perform their larcenous trade. On guard because of Tingle’s effusive welcome, in a split second advised him he was very distant cousin.

A beatific expression of joy flooded Undertaker Tingle’s face and tightening his grip he hustled Matthew into an adjoining office. Wiping perspiration from his scalp, he said with relief, Thank God. Someone from the family finally arrived. You’re the only family who’s shown up. As a matter of fact you’re the only one who’s shown up Now practically in tears he said We were told at the nursing home she was loaded. I just found out she was flat broke. Those rotten bastards at the nursing home up the street, only wanted to get rid of the body they dumped the poor old broad on me. Can you imagine delivering a body without having the common decency to send along even a dress? They wrapped her in a johnny with her Social Security card pinned to it.

A calculating look appeared as he studied Matthew and, in an unctuous voice, said, Now that you represent the family I trust you’re planning to pay for my service. I have an invoice here.

Moving towards the door, Matthew said,Look Pal, I’m sorry for your trouble but you’ve got as much chance of me paying that bill as her climbing out of that casket.

Sitting at his desk with his head in his hands Tingle mumbled I’ll get those no good cock suckers up the street if it’s the last thing I do. With a rueful look he pulled out what appeared to be a yellowed parchment, handing it to Matthew and told him that it came along with the body and he had asked his lawyer to check for its value.

Ornately engraved was the name of the issuing company: ‘The Duns Scotus Charitable and Fraternal Association. The name was unknown to Matthew and it declared it was a burial policy for Six Thousand Dollars issued in 1939, covering one Dolly McNeill. As he studied the contents, Tingle took a call his face flushed up in a wide grin. Reaching to take back the paper from Matthew he said That was my lawyer Nate Fink who told me that he called the Insurance Department and the company is still in business and the policy is probably good."

On hearing the financial condition of the late Dolly Matthew was reduced to simple burial coverage Matthew said to himself, This does it. I’m out of here. Poor old Auntie died broke. If I don’t move fast this guy Tingle will try picking my pockets. As he turned to leave, the Undertaker continued talking, My lawyer says it’s an old fraternal charity and has a class ‘A’ rating which means, according Fink, it has to have at least thirty million liquid in cash and property.

Tingle’s words pulled Matthew up short. What else did Lawyer Fink tell you?

It still has the same name,’ he replied The Duns Scotus Society is its name and three old guys run it. It’s the same management for years."

The words ‘old and millions’, appearing for the second time in twenty four hours, touched Mathew’s inner being. To a Grifter the magic words, ‘old and millions’ often are the recipe for an easy score. His depression of the morning had faded and, with rising spirits, he approached the coffin and bowed to the corpse, whispering, Good night, sweet Aunt Dolly. And thank you—I think—wherever you are.

*

The next morning Matthew called Attorney Fink to inquire if any other informative papers concerning Duns Scotus were found with her policy. Only a membership certificate. was the reply. Under the terms of the policy she had rights to vote at all Annual Meetings in selecting the officers and the Board of Directors.

The news of voting rights tied to membership prompted his instincts to tell him he might be on to something. If a Con man is to be successful to any degree he has to have the innate ability to spot a gullible victim. Without this talent he’s in the wrong business. The preliminary information from Lawyer Fink had the earmarks to recommend further study. The memory of his Wall Street experience on hostile takeovers resurrected and research on Duns Scotus was imperative. If voting rights were tied to each policy the key elements of a hostile takeover might be there. The three old Directors, maybe in their dotage and had to be visited. Behind it all there were millions in the bank.

Over the next few days from public records he gleaned some knowledge of the workings of the Society. A general history was easily obtained from the Boston Public Library and further, the public records of the Attorney General revealed that the financial bedrock was much stronger than Nate Fink’s cursory report. However it was clear that the entire management of the trust was in the hands of three old men well into their seventies.

His first step was to plan a way to meet the Old Guys without making them leery or suspicious. Membership was tied to the issuance of a policy therefore buying a policy was a priority. He’d buy a policy and membership would automatically give him voting rights. If nothing else, by being a major pain in the ass at the Annual Meeting he could ask to be bought off. It wouldn’t be the first time a Board paid off an obstreperous shareholder. With enough sand in the gears he might work a decent payoff. Enough, certainly, to make him a happy man.

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Chapter Two

To say that Matthew was a poor student would be gross understatement and do him a disservice. Matthew dreaded the prospect of doing the necessary research to thoroughly educate him on the business which was Duns Scotus. The information he was gathering was voluminous.

At his condo he spread out the research on his dining room table and began the slow process of assimilating the contents. The Society was founded by Scotch Immigrants in 1855 to provide burial funds and food to families left destitute by the deaths of husbands and fathers, killed building bridges and railroads for the Robber Barons. Societies with similar aims served other nationalities and were formed throughout the United States. They were an answer to a need created by intolerable working conditions.

With the rise of labor unions their missions became obsolete and many quickly faded into history. Duns Scotus was an anomaly, having survived by transforming itself in the ‘thirties’ to a burial insurance company. Policies like the one he saw at Aunt Dolly’s viewing were still being issued with a maximum exposure of ten thousand dollars. The demand for new policies dribbled into a few each year.

The notes revealed that the present policy holders were well over sixty and rapidly dying off. As he read further his pulse quickened when he read that the total obligation to pay if all the policy holders croaked on the same day would total just over eight million, against a liquid reserve of sixty million.

Pushing himself away from the desk and leaning back in the chair shouted out loud Holy shit. It’s a frigging gold mine. There was no doubt now that he was onto something. Now he needed to meet the Directors and make his play.

He was dealing with a blank slate in regard to the three Directors. The note revealed little about them personally. He had no clue, as to who they were and what made them tick. However, he chuckled; by the same token they didn’t know him from Adam. Maybe that’s a good thing. We start even. he thought.

His best move, and apparently the only simple one would be to apply for a policy. What the hell he reasoned. Selling insurance is their business and it might get me in the front door. He wondered at the propriety of attaching his resume with the application. Would it appear too odd or make him seem too anxious? He would dress it up so he wouldn’t appear as an ignorant doofus. He thought about it for a few minutes and began to draft his biography containing some fiction than fact. It had to be done artfully, with enough bullshit to perk up their interest but not enough to scare them off. He inserted a paragraph indicating his current availability and in glowing terms described his apprenticeship in Wall Street.

A Grifter’s most difficult role is masking his motives when hustling a Mark. Assuming the role for whomever he represented himself to be, required clever acting kills. He acknowledged that he was weakest during that part of the scenario. Once he got in the front door, he would have to be very guarded so the Old Men would not fathom his end game. For now he was flying blind and had no idea what tack he would take if he got by the front door. Regardless of self-doubt, he was going ahead—as the words ‘millions and old’ were too hard to ignore.

He mailed an application with the embellished resume, stressing the Wharton School and his Wall Street work. Patience was now the play.

Within days he received a short handwritten note, identifying the sender as a Duns Scotus Director named Peter Gillespie. The note acknowledged receipt of his papers and included a handwritten invitation to meet with the Board two days hence.

Gloating he crossed the first hurdle, he was certain the resume that had gotten him in the door. Once inside he needed a dog and pony show, and relying on bullshit did not give him a satisfactory comfort level. He called Gillespie and they agreed on a time two days later. That the fish had copped the bait restored some confidence in his skills. It was very unclear on why they would want a meeting with him. He mused, There was no way, in God’s good world they wanted to meet him just to sell a ten grand burial policy. No. Both were using the insurance policy as a mask for something else. For a quick unsettling moment, he speculated, Who’s running a con? Me or this guy Gillespie?"

In his gut he felt a game was on and a switch of positions had taken place, and he could only guess why.

*

Old Peter Gillespie at the Duns Scotus Society offices grasped the stair railing with increasing difficulty and descended to the first floor. The old mansion had housed the offices of the Duns Scotus Charitable Society for over a century. He carried with him Matthew Doolin’s papers with a few hand written notes. He announced to the two Directors waiting below, I think we’ve got our bird.

Together the three moved into the old library and took seats around a table. These three, Colin Stewart, Duncan MacDonald and Peter Gillespie, in spite of advanced age, were the entire management. Gillespie was chairman and the obvious leader.

Spreading Matthew’s papers before him, he said, I think we’ve hit the jackpot. This guy’s resume is just what we’ve been looking for. He’s got the Wall Street background. His personal life is a little spotty. He’s managed to stay out of jail one way or the other. He passed the papers to the others, and waited for them to look them over.

Stewart said, Peter, there’s damn little about him that you missed. He looks like he’s the one, even to the blacklisting on Wall Street. MacDonald changing the subject, leaned back in his chair and asked, Colin, what was the last count downstairs? If I remember correctly, there must be about two hundred grand still sitting there.

Pausing for a moment, Colin responded, That’s about it. And thank God, it’s the last of it. We’ll finally be done, Peter, with the headache your brother caused us.

MacDonald, with a wry grin, looking at Gillespie said, Peter, your brother Michael may have been a talented bank robber, but he was as useful as ‘tits on a bull’ on how to dispose of hot money. Michael’s up there laughing his ass off at us, trying to dump this load.

In his vintage years, Michel Gillespie knocked off armored cars. Thievery for him was a vocation. The armored car heist totaled over eight hundred thousand. Using a giant Michigan front-end loader, he split open an armored car which coughed up bags of money. In a waiting car he and his cohorts drove off with the loot.

No one was ever arrested, but marked cash presented a problem for which he had no immediate answer. Waiting for trial on an earlier robbery, he brought the money in two boxes to his brother Peter for safekeeping. Peter was under the impression the boxes contained Michael’s personal belongings to be held until reclaimed by Michael when he was released from prison. Happy to oblige, Peter stored the sealed boxes in the cellar of the Duns Scotus building.

Michael died in prison and Peter, as the next of kin, was notified. The next day, with his two fellow Directors, he went to the basement to open the cardboard boxes. Colin Stewart tore open the first box swearing under his breath as the contents were revealed, Holy Mother of God, look what that bastard Michael dropped off.

All three bent over the table and in the pale light saw cash neatly packed into the first carton. MacDonald tipped the second box onto the table and bundles of twenty dollar bills spilled across its width. Dumbfounded, the three old Directors faced each other, speechless with the guilty knowledge of the source of the cash. In the one hundred fifty years of the Society’s existence no shadow of any sin had ever been levied against it. What to do with it hung over the silence in the room. To tell the FBI they just found it after all those years, in their opinion, was too stupid to consider.

A ‘suspension of disbelief’ is not a facet of the FBI’s make up and they concluded that any story that they had no knowledge of the contents of the boxes was implausible. Even if the Feds believed them, the Society would be irreparably harmed by the fallout once word got out that stolen bank dough had been stored in the basement.

Burning it was an option that in their Scotch hearts they couldn’t bring themselves to do. Collectively, they decided to organize a plan keeping them and the Society out of harm’s way, and still manage disposal of the funds.

For years they were on a number of hit lists by charities of all stripes. Stewart rejected American distribution, arguing that if it were passed in the U.S. they’d wind up before a Federal Magistrate explaining why they possessed stolen funds. They agreed it had to go out of the country.

In a kind of mutual telepathy, they came up with the same name—‘The Caledonian Brotherhood’. For the last ten years they contributed donations to a group of Scotch political partisans with that name who sought the secession of Scotland from the U.K. Non violent, they worked through Parliament and like the IRA they solicited funds in the U.S. illegally. All contributions in the U.S. were made in secret. The donation by Duns Scotus was cash and was deposited to be picked up each year, in rental storage lockers at the South Station.

The Old Guys, years before, had satisfied themselves of the group’s ‘bona fides’ by meeting with certain representatives in a New York hotel. Annual contributions in the low thousands continued until Michael Gillespie’s cardboard boxes were opened. The plan to unload the marked money on the foreign Scots was born. It would be untraceable and vanish outside the U.S. For the last two years the plan had worked perfectly and a total of four hundred thousand disappeared.

Their maintenance man Mcduffy would take a cab on each occasion and without a problem dropped the money in the assigned locker. The Brotherhood would express its pleasure by short notes indicating political success. The third and final trip was coming up and McGreevy had passed away. None of the three would accept the personal risk of carrying hot money across the street, let alone to the South Station. They needed a replacement. Doolin’s application arrived and might solve two equally severe headaches. The first was the final trip with Michael’s loot and the second was a dread of being swallowed up in a hostile takeover by venture capital pirates. In their years of managing, the Society they worried about being the victims of a takeover but had never set up any barriers to such an attack.

I called this fellow Doolin, Gillespie announced, and as we suspected, he’s anxious to meet. If he looks good, we can use him to unload the money in November and at the same time learn how to cover our butts from a hostile takeover. We’re sitting ducks and I’ve worried about it for months.

*

By most accounts, Boston’s Commonwealth Avenue is one of the world’s most splendid concourses, graced by a procession of architecturally exquisite buildings. Running down the center is a wide tree lined park serving as a peaceful respite from the congestion of the neighboring streets.

Matthew drove his Mercedes convertible along Commonwealth Avenue, indifferent to the street’s charm. His destination was a building of architectural extravagance at the corner of the Commonwealth Avenue and Clarendon Street. It occupied a city block and from any angle stood apart from all of its neighbors.

It was the morning of the meeting, and he was still perplexed. He parked his car and ran up the stairs to a ponderous front door. He jerked on an antique brass bell pull causing musical chimes to echo inside. Within seconds the door opened and he was greeted by a smiling old man. I’m Peter Gillespie, he said, extending his hand to him, we’ve been expecting you.

Gillespie led Doolin across a large hall to a paneled ante room that reeked of mothballs. It appeared to have once been a library and empty mahogany bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. At the far end of the room he saw two more old men waiting in a cluster of dark chairs before a marble fireplace.

The two seated men looked expectantly at Doolin as the older man in a crablike shuffle found his place in the empty chair between them. Coughing violently, in a rheumy voice Gillespie began the introductions,The man to my left is Colin Stewart, he wheezed. Doolin turned to look where directed, and faced a bulbous figure, no taller than five feet, with an extremely large, totally bald head. He greeted Doolin, with a friendly nod. The third person introduced himself in a Scotch brogue, announcing, I’m Duncan MacDonald and vigorously shook his hand.

Gillespie announced, We are the entire Board of Directors of the Society. We also serve as the Executive Committee. Motioning Doolin to a chair, the three closed around him in a semi circle.

Unsettled by their informal reception, he settled into the chair. I’ll let them do the talking, he thought as he fidgeted nervously under their intent scrutiny.

Clearing his throat, Gillespie launched into a fifteen minute dissertation on the long history and many good works of the Society. Unconcerned with the Society’s good works, Doolin impatiently listened to the monologue and with difficulty concealed his growing irritation.

This was not the type of interview he expected, and it made him uncomfortable and suspicious. To quickly decipher the moves of a mark was part of his con man’s shtick and this informality threw him off base. It’s their call. he thought. I’m here on their dime and there’s no mention yet of my buying a policy. I wonder what they have in mind?

Leaning back in his chair, he decided to say nothing and waited for Gillespie to finish his history. The moment Gillespie finished, the man, Colin Stewart started to speak addressing Doolin directly. For openers, don’t be surprised at what I am about to say. We know a lot about you. Rarely, do we get an application for a policy from a Bostonian. Yours’ frankly, was a surprise and the sale of another policy was of no consequence to us. It was your personal background which you included that caught our attention. Your resume revealed a background we believe can be put to good use by the Society."

With this he bolted upright in his chair, no longer remaining silent, and in astonishment asked, Are you are offering me a job?

Stewart, replied, That’s the reason for this meeting. Your impetuous behavior, to put it mildly, has led you into some very bizarre business ventures. To top it off you ran into some serious trouble when you worked at Wall Street. In another situation these might be sufficient character flaws to make you unemployable but that is not the case with us. Our research revealed that your business schemes have been— how shall we say it—shifty? You are, to use a euphemism, a rogue.

Jumping up in anger, his face flushed and he shouted at the speaker Who the hell are you to hand me that crap? Remember, you invited me here. I didn’t come to have you gloat over my sins.

As he turned to leave, Stewart grabbed his elbow, shouting Calm down, hear me out! Now face to face—I meant it as a compliment. We need someone with a gambler’s flair. We don’t need a posturing phony.

Still angry and upset, Doolin returned to his chair. I’m losing my touch, he thought, these guys are way ahead of me.

Gesturing for him to stay silent, Stewart continued, Be patient and I’ll explain. Wheezing heavily, to catch his breath, he resumed. We know we can help each other. You need work and with your past, you’re contagious and no companies will look at you. You owe money to a Shylock and are ducking the repo man. The shady deals, oddly enough, with us are part of your strength. The cutthroat tactics you learned on Wall Street together with the lack of ethics used by junk bond raiders is a talent we desperately need. We are afraid of a corporate rape by pirates, and it hangs over us as a real fear.

Stirring uncomfortably, with the eyes of the three riveted on him, he felt a prickly feeling at the base of his scull as he recalled the Wall Street investigations. He remembered with renewed dread, the relentless questioning by the FBI and the threats of prison by the U S Attorney. He escaped indictment, but it was by cooperating with his accusers.

On what he thought seemed a planned cue; Gillespie interrupted Stewart, and took over, We’ve been looking unsuccessfully, for a long time, for someone with your unique type of Wall Street experience. By sheer coincidence, your resume appeared. It contains a certain type of experience we were seeking. Hiring a headhunter was out of the question. If we did, we would have advertised nationally of our structural weakness, and exposed us as a push over for a corporate raid.

This kind of Achilles weakness came with the original charter granted to the Society by the Commonwealth. Full voting rights are given to each policy holder. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that by a quiet campaign to sign up members by proxy we could easily be voted out of office at an Annual Meeting. The Society, as we know it, would disappear. Our Annual meetings have been for the most part, family affairs. For example, last year only thirty five members showed up and they came for the free lunch. We are not damn fools, but we know we are sitting ducks and we need your talent to prepare for such an attack.

Gillespie’s face flushed with the intensity of his message and when he stopped speaking. Stewart jumped in, "What I am about to say to you may seem like a pile of sentimental horse manure, but believe me it is not. As Managers of the Society we have built a strong, healthy and very wealthy organization. Our loyal faithful for all these years have supported us with their monthly premiums. They are our cornerstone. We owe them our best