Christian White leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands in front of his stomach. He was a large man, over six feet, and weighing about two hundred fifty pounds or more. His skin was as black as skin could get without turning into another color. The light reflected off his balding head, and he constantly flashed a smile of large white teeth. He looked vibrant and healthy, and he wore a business suit easily and well in spite of his great size.
“I came to this country thirty years ago,” White said in a somewhat rapid, booming voice. “From Liberia. West Africa. I love the old country, but I was looking for something different. There’s more opportunity here, there’s no doubt about it. That’s why so many people come. I’ve never regretted it. The U.S. has its share of problems, but no one really has any excuse here.”
Revi Patel listened to White speaking, and grimaced inwardly. He didn’t like the man right off the bat. Patel had been in the United States for almost the same length of time as White, but he had little curiosity for White’s own experience as an immigrant. He didn’t like his optimism, his open cheerfulness, his seeming positive mental attitude. Patel thought differently; he tended to see the darker, gloomier side of things. Life seemed to have been that way to him, although others who knew him wondered how he could feel that way. He knew he reacted negatively to anyone cheerful, and who smiled too much, but to him that was their problem, not his.
White did accounting work for numerous small businesses, including one that was a hotel in a nearby town. The owner had recently put in an insurance claim for business interruption; a fire had occurred there three months before. The owner had designated White to meet with the insurance company representative to present the initial claim. Patel was a special investigative unit employee with the insurance company. Initially, a regular insurance adjuster had been on the claim, and she was still involved, but Patel had stepped in because the fire at the hotel appeared to have been deliberately set.
“I’m looking through this material, Mr. White,” Patel said slowly. Both men spoke with thick accents, although to each of them the other’s accent sounded foreign. “The projections you’ve made for this business seem very high. I’ve never seen a hotel that size make as much profit as you’re projecting.”
“I’m going by the income statements my client provided me,” White boomed. “I didn’t actually prepare those statements from his material. He just became a client this year, and we’re in the process of producing his first set of statements. But they’ll be post-fire. These were ones he provided me that he either did himself, or had someone else do, and I based my projections on those.”
“Well, we’re going to need some type of sales tax returns, income tax returns, and other documents to back up these figures,” Patel said slowly. “We can’t just accept these numbers on a piece of paper that your client has given to you.”
White smiled a very broad smile, leaned forward and spread his huge hands across the desk. No matter what angle he positioned himself in the chair, he still looked very business-like in his suit. It was as if it had been perfectly tailored for him, and it was hard to imagine him out of it. He paused for a moment, looking directly at Patel.
Patel’s dislike for White intensified slightly. The man was just too open, too familiar, and he gave off the impression that nothing in life really bothered him much. He wondered how someone could be that happy, that nonchalant, about everything. Surely, he must have felt at a severe disadvantage, at least in his early immigrant days. Patel wondered how he had overcome it, but as soon as he wondered it, he realized he really didn’t care to hear it.
“Nooo problem, Mr. Patel,” White said easily, spreading his hands. “I will get back to my client and get the documentation for you. You know, he expects the portion of the hotel that was burned to be out of commission for at least a year. I believe a year is the policy limit, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Patel said abruptly, averting White’s eyes. Patel didn’t like questions about the policy language or policy limits when he was involved with a case; to him, it showed the party was too keenly aware of the coverage. To be too keenly aware of the coverage, to Patel, indicated a motive for fraud. How many people are aware of what their policy covers, he often asked himself. Sometimes he asked others in the office as well, as if trying to get confirmation of his suspicions from those others. If he received even the faintest confirmation, even if it would have been obvious to an outsider that the person was answering just to keep from conversing with Patel, he seemed to take it as a strong endorsement of his suspicions.
“Well, then,” White said. “I will get the documentation for you. I will get all of the tax returns you request, plus anything you let me know that you need. My client is seeking an advance against his total loss payment, something that will enable him to continue operations in the near term. Please let us know whatever you need, as promptly as possible, and we will provide it first thingWhat else can I do for you, Mr. Patel?”
Patel looked up at White as he was speaking, and when White had finished, he continued to look at him. It seemed like everything the man said caused Patel’s dislike of him to intensify. The feeling was so strong that even Patel wondered what was wrong, what was causing it, why the feeling was so powerful. Deep down, he knew what the problem was; White seemed to radiate optimism without even trying. The feeling would not get any better, Patel knew, until he had left White’s office, so he stood up, quietly said goodbye, and the two men shook hands. White’s handshake was firm, vigorous; Patel’s hand seemed to disappear in it. Patel’s own handshake was weak, and he was dreadfully aware of it. He turned and departed quickly.