Confessions of a Tax Collector (29 page)

“I tried that. Sat outside his house the whole morning and he never left.”

She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment.

“Close it.”

“How? He’s in business.”

“Fifty-three
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it.”

“He’s pyramiding.”

“Fifty-three it. I’ll sign it.”

“I didn’t know we could do that.”

“Then I’ve failed as your manager,” she said. “I can’t believe you made it through the training year without knowing what an in-business fifty-three is. There’s nothing to seize, nothing to levy, nothing left to do. Fifty-three it. Close it.”

“But he’s pyramiding.”

“Maybe I’m mumbling. I’ll say it louder:
Fifty-three this case
.”

“I’ll fifty-three this case.”

“Any other cases in your inventory like it?”

“One or two.”

“Fifty-three them. I don’t want any more garbage in your inventory. I’m sick of ROs sitting on cases like chickens on rotten eggs, waiting for them to hatch. You think I don’t know why you people are doing it? You think if you keep the dogs, I won’t give you any new cases and you won’t have to work.”

“I just didn’t know what to do with them.”

“Now you don’t have that excuse. I want those cases on my desk, ready for my signature, by the close of business today, Rick.”

“You’ll have them.”

The cases would be shelved, and the taxpayers let off the hook, because Annie DeFlorio was making Gina look bad in the eyes of the new branch chief—or at least that was Gina’s perception. She was smart enough to realize that this was probably Bob Campbell’s goal, playing the two off each other, but was powerless to stop it. By pitting one manager against the other, Campbell hoped to increase dollars collected and case closures, his principal charge as leader of the branch. It was playground politics: Headquarters pressured the regions, the regions pressured the districts, the districts pressured the branches, the branches pressured the managers, the managers pressured the revenue officers, and the revenue officers pressured the taxpayers. Some taxpayers, like my curb layer, would benefit. Others would pay dearly.

“Let’s talk about Marsh Day Care,” Gina said.

“Well, if we must.”

“I seem to recall a default letter crossing my desk.”

“Yes. She defaulted again.”

“I also seem to recall she has quite a bit of equity in the house.”

“Yes. She has quite a bit of equity in the house.”

“Hmmmm. A principle residence seizure is the single most sensitive enforcement we take. Not many ROs do them. They’re usually complicated and political and therefore very, very hard to get approved.”

“That’s what everybody’s told me.”

“But if you could get one approved, that would be quite a feather in your cap.”

“Right. Quite a feather.”

“You know the chances of this group getting more than one Grade Eleven slot to fill is slim to none.”

“That’s going to make it tough.”

“Not as tough as you may imagine.”

“Do I have a shot?”

She laughed. “Do you care if you have a shot?”

“Odd as it sounds, I guess I do.”

“Odd as it sounds, you do.”

Allison waited until we were alone in the bull pen to confront me. It began pleasantly. I should have known her well enough by that point to know pleasantness from Allison was a bad sign.

“How’s it going?” she asked. She pulled up Rachel’s old chair and sat down. “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“It’s going pretty good,” I said.

“Did you hear the rumor?”

“Which one?” I knew which one.

“There’s going to be only one promotion next year.”

“No, hadn’t heard that one. Why do you think that is? Budget cuts?”

“We’re collecting too much money,” she said. It was a widely held opinion in the Service that Collection was punished with budget cuts when times were good and money was flowing freely into the Treasury.

“I’ll try to cut back.”

“I thought Gina told you about that rumor.”

“Not that I recall.”

“She told me you already knew.”

“Maybe she had me confused with Henry.”

She leaned in, a smile playing on her lips.

“I know what you’re up to.”

“Okay.”

“Kind of ham-handed, if you ask me.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Allison.”

“Gina told me already, Rick. You asked her if she would help you at the theater.”

The community theater in Clearview had hired me to direct and adapt original stories by children into a one-act play for that summer’s festival.

“Not precisely. I had to get approval from the Service for the outside employment and she was curious. I believe she asked me if I needed any help running the show.”

“So of course you said yes.”

“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She has no life, you know, outside this place.”

“Are you insinuating I don’t either?”

“No.” I frowned. “I was talking about Gina.”

“You know, some people might look at this situation and say you’re not exactly acting out of the goodness of your heart.”

“And somebody might say the whole thing is none of anybody else’s business.”

“It’s somebody else’s business if there’s influence involved.”

“Influence? Did you say influence?”

“Oh, cut the crap, Rick. You know she has a crush on you.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Everybody talks about it.”

“And everybody talked about your crush on Culpepper.”

“I never had a crush on Culpepper.”

“My point. Everybody also says we’re having an affair. You see what I’m getting at? What was I supposed to do, tell her to go to hell?”

“It’s improper.”

“In your opinion.”

“Perception is reality,” she said smugly. She had picked up the phrase from me.

“Reality is what we decide to make it,” I shot back. “Why are we talking like fortune cookies? Jealously doesn’t become you, Allison.”

“It is improper,” she said piously, “for a manager to fraternize with an employee.”

“I’ll try to keep my hands off her.”

“It’s not going to work, you know. They’ll never promote a male over three females. And especially not a white male.”

“Maybe I’ll change my official designation to American Indian,” I answered.

“It’s pitiful, really. You know how things work around here. You know why Gina made manager. It’s not how good you are or how much you suck up. You’ve got to have the right skin color and the right sexual organs. So unless you plan to have your thing chopped off, I guess you’re shit out of luck, Mr. Yancey.”

At the end of each month I could rely on two things: a DIAL briefing with Gina and a visit from Laura Marsh. She always insisted on coming to the office. I would lug the five-pound case file into the interview booth and listen to the latest litany of woes. On this particular visit, she was visibly upset: she had received the official notice of default of her latest installment agreement.

“I guess you’re getting tired of seeing me,” she said. She had gained at least fifteen pounds since we first met. The dark circles under her eyes seemed darker, her blond hair paler, her skin grayer. Although she had put on weight, Laura Marsh seemed smaller, as if she were shrinking or being slowly crushed by the innumerable sorrows of life.

“Not at all,” I said. “I have a soft spot in my heart for you, Ms. Marsh. You were my first case and you’ll probably be my last.”

She laughed. “I think I like you better than Melissa, and I know I like you better than that Mr. Culpepper. Whatever happened to him? Did they fire him?”

“He took another job in a different division.”

“I didn’t mean no offense. He might be your friend.”

“I’m not sure he’s anyone’s friend.”

I opened the case file and pulled out the copy of the default letter. She averted her eyes. Her eyeliner was smudged and uneven beneath her right eye.

“You’re growing a beard,” she said.

“I’m trying to look more mature.”

“I like it.” She would not say if she thought it made me look more mature.

It was coming in patchy on the sides. I was considering growing it into a Vandyke, but wondered if that was too Bohemian for Byzantium. Culpepper would never have dreamed of growing facial hair.

“And didn’t you used to wear glasses?”

“I switched to contacts.”

“That’s probably a good idea. You have such small eyes for a grown man. I never knew until this moment they were blue.”

They weren’t. I had purchased the brand of contacts that altered eye color.

“You must be in love,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“When my husband fell in love with my eighteen-year-old next-door neighbor, he lost twenty pounds and bought a motorcycle.”

“I haven’t bought a motorcycle.”

“Are you? In love, I mean.”

“I’m engaged.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer. “Well, I’m sure she’s very sweet. Does she know what you do for a living?”

“She thinks I work for the CIA.”

“That’s more romantic.”

“She thinks my calculator is linked by satellite to Langley.”

“Who’s Langley?”

“Ms. Marsh, maybe we better talk about taxes now.”

“Oh,” she sighed. “I suppose. If we must.”

“You’ve missed two payments. I had to send this letter.”

“So what happens now, Rick? Are you going to seize my house?”

“It’s like this,” I said. “We usually start small and easy and work our way up to big and difficult. First we would levy your bank account. Then we would show up at the end of the day, when the parents are picking up the kids, and hand a levy to each one, to attach to the money they owe the day care. Then we would probably seize the van. The house would be the last thing we—”

“The house is the only thing I got that’s worth anything.”

She understood, then, where the thing must go, the terminus of our relationship. In Basic Training, I had missed a question about enforcement.

The question gave the value of each asset and asked what the revenue officer’s first action should be. I had written a complicated response, involving levy on receivables and vehicles. Sam called me to the front of the class and explained the correct answer was seizure of the taxpayer’s real estate.
Always go where the most equity is,
he said.
That’s the asset that will be the least hassle to seize, since it’s not the taxpayer’s personal residence.
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“Did you ever talk to the bank?” I asked.

“Three months ago. They said come back.”

“When?”

“After three months.”

“So you’ll go back and see what they say.”

“They will say what they always say, Rick.”

“Then go to another place.”

“With what? You know I can’t show any way to pay back a loan. I’m losing money hand over fist.”

“Some secondary lenders don’t really care.”

“And charge credit card-type interest.”

“Well, so does the IRS.”

“They’ll foreclose and I’ll lose the house. I lose the house and I lose the business. I lose the business and I lose my children.”

“Lose your children?”

“My ex is back in the picture—didn’t I tell you? He’s taking me to court for visitation, modification of child support, you name it. He married that little slut from next door and the minute I lose the house he’ll file a motion to have me declared an unfit mother. You know HRS
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has already been to the house twice in the last month? A ‘confidential informant’ keeps giving them reports of abuse in the day care. And who do you think that informant is? So the bottom line is, you people better hurry if you’re going to shut me down, because the state just may beat you to it.”

She rummaged in her purse. A pack of cigarettes fell onto the floor. Old grocery store receipts spilled onto the table. I slid the box of Kleenex in front of her.

“Thanks.” The tissue came away from her face dotted black.

“We could play the worst-case scenario game for hours, Ms. Marsh,” I said.

“Call me Laura. Why won’t you ever call me Laura?”

“The point is I can’t take this case to my manager and recommend we close it, not with this much equity in the house.”

“Fine then. Fine. Just take the goddamned house. I don’t care.”

“You’re not letting me finish.”

“Jesus Christ, I’ve been dealing with you people for so long, I know what you’re going to say before you say it!”

“What was I going to say?”

“You’re going to say I’ve got to go back to the bank. I’ve got to go back just one more time.”

“Can you catch up on these missed payments?”

“No. Not right now. But I am current with the deposits for the quarter. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“My manager is going to say that with this much equity you should be able to get some money to pay us.”

“I’ve met your manager. You don’t want to hear what I think about your manager.”

“No. I don’t. Please listen to what I’m trying to tell you. It doesn’t matter who the manager is. We will not withhold collection on your account and we will not enter into another installment agreement until you give us eighty percent of your equity in the house.”

She looked away. She took a deep, shuddering breath. In one hand she clutched the wadded tissue, in the other, the Marlboro Lights.

“You know it’s the last thing I want to do,” I said. She was almost there but, if I pushed too hard, she might break, and broken, she would lack the strength to do my will. I had to show her the only unlocked door in the black corridor and ensure she had enough energy to walk through it. “As the letter says, we can’t do anything for thirty days. But as long as you have a commitment from someone to lend you the money, we can give you extra time.”

A strand of blond hair had come loose from her bun and hung over her forehead; the tip swayed and brushed her cheek. She had pushed herself away from the table and was resting her elbows on her broad knees, her shoulders hunched, her back bowed. She rocked slightly back and forth in the chair.