The Sheltered Don - a short story by Jack Lundorf

Dedicated to my friend Hal Zuehlke, Rest in Peace

Gaylord Hornsby was angry at the world and with a name like Gaylord he had every right to be. After experiencing relentless chiding by his elementary and high school classmates, despite the psychological scars, he finally drummed up the courage to ask his father why Gaylord. He was told it was the first name given to the first-born male in his lineage since the beginning of time and that he should be proud to carry it. He was far from it, after all, he couldn’t be called Gay because he was not and Lord was a bit pretentious. He had no middle name, which apparently was part of the deal.

Gaylord was the first of his family to graduate from college. He was able to attend thanks to his great, great, great Grandfather’s insight to open a family college fund in 1792. Since that time, family members were compelled to fund the account and it only took two-hundred thirty years to reach an amount to provide his four years of undergraduate studies albeit he still had to buy his own books and pay activity fees.

He took to the advanced education scene quite well and proved successful enough to achieve a 3.89 GPA thus earning a BS degree in Business Analytics from Penn State University. Gaylord’s education did not stop there, apparently with intervention from his ghostly great, great, great grandfather, he was awarded a full scholarship to attend Wharton School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania to pursue an MBA. He breezed through the two-year program and graduated third in his class.

As he was now degreed to the hilt and with the help of the prestigious Wharton Placement Office, the job offers came pouring in. All the big cats weighed in from Amazon and Berkshire Hathaway to YouTube and Zenith and everything in between, he was golden.

Gaylord settled on a Senior Vice-Presidential role at Bank of America in their Commercial Lending Division where he met his wife Roxanne and raised their two children, a daughter Sylvia and a son Gaylord of course, no middle initial. They lived lavishly in their mansion, tucked cozily just outside of Charlotte North Carolina, for a full thirty-one years living large on Gaylord’s mid six figure salary plus performance bonuses.

Gaylord Senior grew bored of what he now considered his mundane, conservative banking role and decided to retire on his fifty-fifth birthday. Now at home, sitting in his den wearing a Pittsburg Steelers jersey over sweatpants, he took stock of his life. Kids are finally out of the house. His daughter was living somewhere in Oregon in a commune. Gaylord referred to her as a Hippie but she was adamant that her proper title was ‘Child of Nature’. He chalked it up to her smoking way too much weed which he realized he had indirectly funded. If she was happy, that’s what counts.

His son, Gaylord the 232,759th , was wandering about aimlessly in the Caribbean after graduating from his alma mater Penn State with a business degree that took him 6 and a half years to accomplish. He justified his time in the Caribbean as a soul-searching exercise i.e. what do I want to do now that I’m grown up. Let’s just say that he inherited his mother’s acumen for business which amounted to nil. He had a tough time getting through but Gaylord Senior insisted he finish in order to keep the new post-education momentum of their family intact.

Gaylord’s wife Roxy had been hitting the bottle heavily over the past three years and had been in and out of rehab programs on four occasions. She proved quite efficient from a relapse perspective; at the very least, she was consistent. Gaylord was as supportive as a husband could be but reasoned she had become bored with life. There were only so many international junkets a married couple could experience before the thrill became mundane. Her addiction perplexed Gaylord as he had provided her with the best of everything albeit he was away on business quite frequently over the past three decades. He chalked it up to a genetic manifestation, which may have caused Sylvia’s penchant for cannabis. Although he gave it his best effort, he now reasoned that you can’t control something out of your control.

That evening, Gaylord showered, shaved, put on his Flint and Tinder Khakis complimented with a bright red Elton Green silk shirt and slipped on his Italian leather loafers with tassels of course. He had been frequenting The Greater Charlotte Executive Club not so much for the luxurious ambiance but more so for the attention he received as a successful, well-respected banking mogul. Often he held court mentoring the forty- and fifty-year-old execs whose stars were rising at their respective companies. The encounters also enabled him to stay current within the rumor mill regarding activities inherit at local companies and their senior-level executives. Most was pure bullshit and the execs fueling it did so to exhibit to their peers that they were sharp enough to be in the know. Gaylord had opined to the group frequently that he abhorred the rhetoric of the rumor mill as a waste of valuable time.

The gatherings proved to boost his ego as he longed for the days of getting his boots licked by bank employees and wanton commercial customers.

Following the night’s mentoring session, Gaylord ordered a third four-finger Johnny Walker Black as the group, still seated in the circle of distressed leather chairs, became less formal and were feeling the effects of their cocktails. The execs were now engaged in various one-off conversations when John Hanratty, Executive Director at ClearWater Technologies, turned to Gaylord and asked, “So, Gaylord, now that you’re retired, what do you plan to do with your time?” The conversations stopped abruptly as all ears tuned in to hear his response.

The light bulb popped in Gaylord’s head as he recognized this as an excellent opportunity to feed the rumor mill to once and for all prove that you can’t always believe what you think you hear. His response would be engineered to test the integrity of the group, so he edged forward in his chair, holding his Scotch with both hands, and turned his head to make brief eye contact with all.

‘OK, we’re all friends here, right?’ All heads shook affirmative, “Of course”, “you know it”, for certain”. Gaylord let the feedback extinguish. ‘Alright then, I hold you all to your word of honor to not breath a word of what I’m about to share with you, “of course”, “you know it”, for certain”. ‘Well, er, shortly after I retired from the bank, I was approached by a representative from the Cardino Family. Gents, their business is quite unorthodox as they are the premier underworld operation in the New England area based out of Manhattan. They asked and I accepted, to represent their organization as they expand southward on the Atlantic coast. You may wonder what exactly I’ll be involved with and,’ he swiveled his head to look around then continued, ‘that is collecting extortion monies from companies operating in North Carolina. Apparently, this is a common business practice on the North Atlantic Seaboard so the organization included North Carolina as part of, let’s say, their expansion plan.’

Joe Trufford chimed in, “So, what exactly are you conveying Gaylord? I mean, how does their business plan work?”

‘Good question Joe, er, the Cardino’s have quite a bit of clout with various labor unions and tout their reputation as a catalyst to render setbacks at companies that fail to pony up their consulting fees. It’s a cost of doing business.’

Silence. Most had wide eyes and others shifted nervously in their chairs. Gaylord thought maybe now was a good time to reveal the ruse but held fast. “Now, remember, Gentlemen, not a single word to anybody about this…agreed?” “of course,” “you know it,” for certain.”
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On subsequent visits to the club, Gaylord sensed a heightened respect from not only the members but the staff as well. Barely setting foot in the place he was immediately engaged by at least two servers asking if he wanted his usual four fingers of JWB Scotch, which was unprecedented.

Six weeks to the day after unleashing the ruse, while at the club, he was approached by a regular of his group John Halverson. ‘Good evening, Gaylord, may I ask for a moment of your time?’

“Why certainly, John, what can I do for you?”

John cocked his head and led Gaylord into an unoccupied banquet room. Clandestinely, right out of a Robert Ludlum novel, he withdrew a thick envelope from his inside sport coat pocket and handed it to Gaylord.

“What’s this John?”

‘Well, um, let’s just say it’s the first payment of your consulting fee from Cambridge Industries. We’ve come to the realization that it is, in fact, a cost of doing business.’

“Oh, OK John, thanks.”

With that, John turned and sauntered out of the room. Gaylord stood dumbfounded, then headed into the men’s room and roosted in the far stall. He carefully opened the envelope and counted thirty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. There was a handwritten note on company letterhead that read: first of subsequent monthly commission payments for services rendered. Gaylord mouthed, ‘Holy Shit’.

He buckled, zippered up and exited the stall with his head spinning. In came David Blair, CEO at Fort Night Technologies, “Hey Gaylord, just the man I wanted to see.” David bent over forward to ensure no legs were visible in the stalls. He passed Gaylord an envelope, “Here’s Fort Night’s monthly consultation payment.”

‘Er, uh, thank you David.’

“No worries Captain.”

Blair proceeded to muscle up to the urinal and relieved himself as Gaylord washed his hands. Finishing, David washed his hands, bid Gaylord a good evening with a salute and exited. Gaylord splashed cold water in his face before heading back out to commence the night’s mentoring session.

On his drive home, Gaylord was flabbergasted by the receipt of the envelopes. Not only did he not disclose the specific amount of the consulting fee but he found it interesting that the two companies felt compelled to remit prior to being shaken down. He thought maybe it was a mistake going to work for the bank and he should have pursued the extortion route right out of Wharton.

Arriving home, he chucked the two envelopes in his office safe, knowing he would return the funds after proving his point.

Over the next month, he was slipped a total of thirty-two envelopes with varying denominations ranging from $750 up to $4,500. Notes contained in the envelopes indicated intent to pay monthly while others denoted a preference to remit quarterly. Gaylord couldn’t believe it, so much for the integrity of his inner circle.

Over the ensuing year, Gaylord continued to receive envelopes which he stashed in the safe. As long as he had the cash stored, should the authorities become aware of the ruse, he would pass it off as an experiment of deception and return the monies. At the least, the companies who contributed would be on the hook for not reporting the activity prior.

One evening at the club as Gaylord was holding court, Keith Courtwright, President at Kleinman Textiles, bent down and whispered in Gaylord’s ear during a lull in the festivities, “I need to talk to you, follow me.”

Keith took off toward the vestibule and Gaylord piped up, “Gents, need to tap a kidney; please excuse me.” With that he rose and followed Keith to the club reception desk, which was vacant.

Keith leaned in, ‘Thanks for your time Gaylord; look, Kleinman is undergoing due diligence from a potential suitor interested in purchasing our company. I’m afraid we’ll have to cease our payments for at least six months during the process. We’ll certainly remit our consultation fees retroactive once the dust settles. Are you OK with this?’

Gaylord rubbed his chin as he was now savvy to this whole extortion scam. “Well Keith, that’s unfortunate. If I report this lapse to my employer, they’re not gonna be happy. Sending a crew down here from New York will prove expensive and it’ll be the first visit to North Carolina so a precedent will be appropriate. Not sure Kleinman would survive the wrath, which would not play well into your desire to sell the company.”

‘Er, uh, look Gaylord, is there anything else we could do in the interim to prevent misfortune?’

Silence.

“Well, er, ah, let me think, Keith…OK listen, my son Gaylord Junior is currently conducting a career search for a senior-level position in the Charlotte area. Any employment opportunities as such at Kleinman?”

‘Hmmm, er, yes. As a matter of fact, our CEO resigned over word of the acquisition, leaving an opening. Does your son have a business background?’

“He sure does, graduated from Penn State with a business degree. Can we set up an interview?”

‘Not necessary, he’s hired, how soon can he start?’

“Well, he’s currently abroad but I can run the opportunity by him…three weeks, OK?”

‘Sure, we’ll appreciate his expertise.’

That evening, Gaylord texted his son, asking for a phone call. Amazingly, his call came within the hour.

‘Hey Dad, how’s it going?’

“Good son, good. Listen, I was able to talk you up with an associate from Kleimann Textiles here in Charlotte. Seems they’re in need of a CEO, you’re hired. How soon can you get back here to assume the position?”

‘Er, ah, thanks Dad, I guess I can be back home within a couple of weeks. Just need to tie up a few loose ends here and I’ll catch a flight.’

“Sounds like a plan, I think this will prove to be a great opportunity, keep me posted.”

‘Bye for now Dad.’ He remounted his Island Girl concubine to finish his business at hand.


Gaylord Junior arrived home and took the job at Kleimann. His tenure lasted two and a half years and his greatest accomplishment was sticking sixteen sharpened pencils in the ceiling while seated at his desk in the corner office. It was almost seventeen, but one fell down prior to the close of business thus disqualified. Junior returned to the Caribbean to continue his soul searching.

Gaylord continued to take envelopes not only from his inner circle but from companies he had no idea existed, for the better part of fifteen years.

Enough was enough and Gaylord decided to end the ruse and come clean. After taking stock of the booty in his safe, the companies who paid his consultant fees over the years were now either defunct or were acquired by bigger fish. There was no offset to repay.

After considering at length his options, he decided to contribute the ruse monies into the family education fund in various increments less than ten thousand dollars.

The Hornsby family, for many generations to come, would have the opportunity to attend college…including book and activity fees.

Jack Lundorf