Bluff

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

“Done!” Sklar slapped the desk.

  He then drew out a thick black fountain pen from its holder and held it poised over a notepad headed: “From the desk of Burt Sklar.” He looked at me, and said: “How’s this: ‘I agree to give Maud Warner $200,000 in cash in 6 months. In exchange, she agrees to go away and keep her mouth shut forever.’”

  “Sounds good.”

  He pointed his finger at me. “Just understand this, Maud. I will call the police and have you arrested if you start harassing me again. You’re sure you understand that, right?”

  “Asshole,” I muttered. “Yes! I understand that.”

  “Poker’s done wonders for your vocabulary.” He finished with a flourish, signed his name, and handed me the pen. “Your turn.”

  I wrote: “Burt Sklar agrees to give me $200,000 in 6 months. In exchange, I agree to go away (to prison) and keep my mouth shut forever.” I signed it.

  We exchanged the notes. Burt chuckled when he saw the ‘to prison’ addition I made.

  “Ever the drama queen, Maudie. Just like your mother.”

  “Not quite. My mother loved you.”

  “I’ll keep this in a safe place. On second thought, maybe I’ll frame it,” he said. “So…happy now, sweetie?”

  Sweetie? I thought. Like we’d just had a nice dinner together. I knew that Sklar liked helping people with their problems almost as much as he liked helping himself to their money. He loved being thanked. Gratitude energized him. It was Sklar’s unfailing optimism that made him so popular and indispensable. In the old days, long before I suspected him of being a crook, I was often comforted by his confidence. Now I was offended by it. To me, Sklar was no better than a killer who shows up at the funeral of his victim and gets a charge when the family thanks him for paying his respects to the deceased. But at least Alan was safe for the moment.

  The coup de grace came when Sklar showed me to the door and actually made a move to give me one of his peppy How-To-Win-Friends-And-Influence-People handshakes good-bye. I swatted his outstretched hand aside like it was a crab claw.

  Alan was waiting for me in the lobby. He couldn’t believe I’d gotten the money. He hugged me tight.

  “Thanks, Sis.”

  “Love you, Bro.”

  I told him we had to go directly to the post office. I mailed Sklar’s “Go Away” I.O.U. note to myself in Washington, D.C. by registered letter.

  I told Alan, “I’m not going to open this letter. It’s proof that Sklar owes us the money. If anything happens to me, I’ll put it inside a copy of your favorite book in my apartment.”

  We both knew what book that was.

  Alan was so shaky I insisted on taking him back to his apartment. We took a cab to Ninth Avenue where he lived in a tenement wedged between a pizzeria and a dry cleaners. Alan led me up two flights of a smelly, dimly lit stairway.

  The apartment faced the noisy street. The vague odor of pizza mixed with dry cleaning fluid was enough to put me off my favorite food forever. This was a far cry from the posh two-bedroom apartment on Beekman Place Alan was forced to sell years ago. Still, my brother always had a knack for making his homes cozy. I recognized some of his old furniture—the chintz couch and matching chairs from the library and several antique pieces, including the nineteenth-century painting of a spaniel which had hung over the fireplace.

  I dropped the shopping bag down on the coffee table.

  “We’re going to talk about this,” I said.

  He thanked me effusively for helping him. But I wanted to know the logistics of how he was going to repay these goons he owed.

  “So, let me get this straight. You’re just going to meet them somewhere with a shopping bag full of cash and hand it over?” I said skeptically.

  He didn’t answer. He went into his tiny bedroom and came out proudly brandishing a gun. “Don’t worry. I can handle it.”

  I was furious. “Where the hell did you get that thing?!”

  “I stole it,” he said sheepishly.

  “Jesus H. Christ, Alan! Are you nuts? Do you have a permit?”

  “No.”

  “You could go to jail if they catch you with this. Who the hell did you steal it from anyway?”

  “Burt,” he said with a sly smile.

  I was dumbfounded. “You stole this gun from Sklar? When?”

  “A couple of years after Mom died.”

  I crossed my arms. “Explain please.”

  “Okay, so Burt has this little house in Westhampton. He’s had it since he was married to his first wife. He rents it out ’cause he has that big old mansion in Quogue now. He used to let me stay there off-season.”

  “Gosh, Alan. I had no idea you guys were that close.”

  “Yeah, well, I used to get drugs for some of his clients. But I thought he was really my friend too.”

  I shook my head in despair at how Sklar had used my brother.

  “So how’d you get the gun?”

  “I was out there one winter. I got bored. I went poking around in the attic. There was a whole lotta junk up there. Ratty old furniture, boxes of old tax returns, receipts—shit like that. I found it hidden up under a rafter. I don’t even think Burt knew it was there. So I just took it.”

  “Let me see it.”

  He handed me the gun.

  “Jesus! It’s loaded!” I cried.

  “I know. Be careful.”

  “Me be careful? I’m Maudie Oakley, remember?”

  I took the bullets out.

  “You’re an idiot, Alan. If you get caught with a gun in New York it’s a mandatory prison sentence. What the hell are you thinking?”

  Alan shrugged. “I like having it around. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “I dunno. It’s protection. This isn’t the greatest neighborhood, as you may have noticed.”

  I looked hard at my brother. There was a defeated air about him that told me he needed protection more from himself than from any outside threats.

  “Did you tell Burt you found this gun?”

  “Hell no! Like I said, I don’t even think he knew it was there.”

  “So, what’s the plan? You’re going to bring the gun along when you give these thugs their money?”

  “I dunno… Maybe. I haven’t really thought it through.”

  “Alan, look at me…” I said sternly.

  It was hard getting him to focus. But when I finally looked deep into his eyes, all I saw was hurt and confusion. He was definitely on something.

  “Alan, honey, are you really in trouble for gambling? Or do you just want this money for drugs? Please tell me. I won’t be mad, I promise.”

  He leaped up from the couch. “Quit badgering me, Maudie! I’m grateful for your help. But you just gotta let me handle it. I’m a grown man. I know what I’m doing, okay?”

  I stared at him, trying to “read” him. I knew he was lying.

  “Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t… But whatever you do, you’re not doing it with this gun!”

  I dropped the weapon into my purse.

  The next time I saw my brother was a month later on October 10th, 2013. He was on a slab in the Bellevue morgue—dead of an overdose.

  I still get teary when I think of that pearly gray day when I sat on a bench by the East River with Alan’s ashes in an urn beside me. I don’t know how long I sat staring at the water with the breeze gently blowing my hair.

  It was then that I began to think seriously about revenge.

  I went back to D.C. and continued tracking Sklar, but with real hatred this time—not just idle curiosity. I was obsessed because, rightly or wrongly, I blamed him for Alan’s death.

  A month later, I followed Sklar from lunch at Café Milano to a house in Bethesda. I saw Sun Sunderland come out of that house and ride off in the taxi with Skla
r. I asked a neighbor who lived there. When I found out, I rang the doorbell. A distraught young woman appeared, nursing some bad bruises. That woman was Danya Sunderland. She had quite a tale to tell.

  That was the real beginning.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Manhattan D.A. Vance Packer has just been told a story he finds too incredible not to believe. He’s in a meeting with Jean Sunderland, Danya Sunderland, Squire Huff, and Detective Chen. Packer wonders if any of his predecessors ever had to deal with a more bizarre situation than the one confronting him now. His father always told him that politics makes strange bedfellows. But in this case, these bedfellows make even stranger politics.

  The two Mrs. Sunderlands have apparently put aside their grievances and come to him for help. Danya Sunderland has tearfully revealed that Sun Sunderland made a deathbed confession to her. He admitted abetting Burt Sklar in the murder of Lois Warner years ago because both men were terrified the old lady was going to go to the police and expose them.

  Packer thinks this revelation belongs squarely in The Land of Daytime Television. But the fact that Danya, the bigamous Mrs. Sunderland, is being wholeheartedly supported in her claim by Jean, the legitimate Mrs. Sunderland, is what catapults this astounding confession into the realm of the Planet Surreal. Packer clears his throat and directs his attention to Danya for a closer examination of the facts as she recalls them.

  “Let me get this straight, please. You’re telling us that when you were with Mr. Sunderland in the hospital in intensive care, he confessed to you that he and Burt Sklar murdered Lois Warner. Correct?”

  “I mean, he kinda hinted about it before. But in the hospital he told me pretty much everything and said he wanted a priest,” Danya says softly.

  “And the reason he told you this was because…?”

  “I guess he figured he was gonna croak. And he was, like, real scared of going to hell, like I said.”

  “Can you describe exactly what happened?”

  “Well, he was out of it, y’know? Sayin’ all this crazy stuff like, ‘Burt made me do it…Burt made me do it…! I’m sorry, Lois! Go away, go away!’ Like he’d seen a ghost or something.

  Danya’s childlike bearing—a gentle euphemism for stupidity—convinces Packer she must be telling the truth. After all, how could a person of her obviously limited intelligence make something this nuts up?

  “When exactly in this delirium did Mr. Sunderland tell you he and Mr. Sklar killed Lois Warner?”

  “Kinda at the end, sorta. I kept telling him the priest was coming and he was gonna be okay. But then he, like, pulled me real close and said, ‘We killed Lois Warner. Burt and me. I saw her ghost… God forgive me.’ He started choking. Then he just kinda, y’know, croaked.”

  “Those were his exact words? ‘We killed Lois Warner…?”

  Danya nods firmly. “Yeah. Him and Burt.”

  At this point, Jean interjects. “We have a theory, Vance. Tell him, Squire.”

  Huff has been itching for an opportunity to show he’s worth the thousand dollars an hour Jean is paying him.

  He clears his throat theatrically. “Yes, well, we know that Maud Warner has always accused Burt Sklar of stealing from her mother, Lois Warner.”

  “I didn’t know who Lois Warner was. Swear!” Danya interrupts.

  Huff ignores her. “So we believe that Lois Warner found out Sklar was robbing her blind. Sklar and Sunderland went to see old Mrs. Warner, perhaps to talk her out of going to the authorities. When she refused to back down, they had no choice but to kill her.”

  Packer furrows his brow. “That’s a little drastic, isn’t it?”

  Jean pipes up. “Is it, Vance? Really? If Lois Warner had gone to the police and they investigated Sklar, they would have found out about Sun who’d just been illegally married at that point. Maud Warner claims her mother signed a Durable Power of Attorney without knowing it so Sklar could loot her fortune. Is it just a coincidence that Sun signed his Durable Power of Attorney over to Sklar as well?”

  “Finding out Mr. Sunderland was a bigamist would have ruined him socially and financially. Not to mention he would have gone to jail,” Huff points out.

  “They rape people in jail. Too bad he didn’t go,” Jean says.

  Packer raises an eyebrow at Jean’s bitterness. He turns back to Danya.

  “You and Sunderland have been illegally married for five years, right?”

  “About.”

  “And you knew he was married when you married him, correct?”

  “Yeah! He said he loved me and wanted me to have a kid. He wanted the kid to have his name. I didn’t think it was so wrong. I have a friend who’s a Mormon. They do it, right?”

  Packer and Chen exchange amused glances. “Where were you when Sunderland was shot?”

  “In D.C. Burt called me from the hospital and told me to get up there. I was hysterical. I left Mooncat with my neighbor and got on a train and went to the hospital. Jean was there.” Danya looks at Jean apologetically.

  Packer turns to Jean. “And that’s when you found out about your husband’s other life.”

  Jean bows her head. “Yes.”

  “You both went into his room, as I understand it.”

  The two women say “Yes,” in unison.

  “Then what happened?” Packer asks.

  “I left,” Jeans says curtly.

  “He wanted to be with me,” Danya says. “I’m real sorry, Jean.”

  “I know,” Jean says.

  “When did he ask for the priest?” Packer says.

  “Um… Like, um, the next morning. He knew he was gonna go. I told the nurse and she went to find one,” Danya says.

  “And did he come?”

  “Finally, yeah. Too late,” Danya says.

  Packer rocks back in his chair and makes a little cathedral of his hands. He reflects for a long moment.

  “Did you think about going to the police after he confessed this to you?” Packer asks.

  Danya reflects for a moment. “I know it sounds weird, but I kinda thought Sun was just, like, imagining it, y’know?”

  “Imagining that he and Sklar killed Lois Warner?” Packer says.

  “Yeah. See, when my mom died, she thought she saw this angel coming to get her. People think really crazy things when they’re dying.”

  “So you didn’t really believe him when he told you?”

  “Well, I kinda did. But then I didn’t.”

  “But now you believe him, right? What made you change your mind?”

  She takes a shaky breath. “I’m real scared of Burt now.”

  Squire Huff picks up the ball. “We believe that Mr. Sunderland left it to Sklar to make sure Danya would be taken care of in the event of Mr. Sunderland’s death. Sklar abused this opportunity and started transferring vast sums of money into offshore accounts which were in Mr. Sunderland’s, Sklar’s, and Danya Sunderland’s joint names. In order to access those accounts, they all three had to sign. It was a tontine, survivors take all.”

  “Yeah! And I didn’t know a thing about all that stuff! I swear!” Danya cries. “All I know is that Sun told me to trust Burt and do whatever he said. Burt took care of my rent, my bills, credit cards, every damn thing! He gave me cash every month. He was, like, y’know, my guard dog or whatever.”

  Packer frowns. “But now you’re scared of him…?”

  “Yeah. Really scared.”

  “Because Mr. Sunderland confessed to you that he and Sklar killed Lois Warner?”

  “Yeah! And because he killed my cat! And because he says we have to be together ’cause he’s always loved me!”

  Packer’s eyes widen. “He told you he loves you?”

  “Like he’s been in love with me forever. If you ask me, I think he’s happy Sun’s dead.”

  “Show him the le
tter, dear,” Jean says.

  Danya takes Sklar’s letter out of her purse and hands it to Packer. He puts on his glasses, reads it, and looks up. “When did you receive this?”

  “Burt gave it to me in his apartment after Sun died. There’s a whole bunch of ’em. He danced with me and told me he’d always been in love with me right from the beginning. It was icky. It really creeped me out.”

  Packer hands Chen the letter so Chen can read it.

  “So you and Sklar were together in his apartment after Sunderland died?” Packer says with a furrowed brow.

  “I went back to D.C. after the funeral. But when Jean went on TV and told about me and everything, Burt came down to pick me up.”

  “Why did you go with him knowing what you knew from Mr. Sunderland?” Chen asks.

  She hangs her head. “He told me he was gonna put me up in a hotel. I didn’t know he was gonna take me to his apartment and keep me a prisoner.” A quick lie.

  Danya musters up some tears. Jean thinks Danya deserves an Oscar for this performance.

  “Burt wanted you to go to a meeting with his lawyer. But you didn’t go,” Packer says.

  Jean sighs in exasperation. “For Christ’s sakes, Vance! She’s explained all that to you. Hobbs came to interview her. She saw him as a way to escape. She fled to him out of fear. And that’s why we’re here today. She wants to help me now. Isn’t that right, dear?” Jean turns to Danya with a supportive smile.

  “Right! I know y’all think I’m this lowlife gold digger. But you gotta believe me. I didn’t know what I was signing! Sun said I should trust Burt! Burt said sign stuff, so I signed stuff. Burt said he was making me rich. But you can’t be rich in fuckin’ jail!”

  Huff pipes up in a paternal voice. “Danya, dear, may I have your permission to tell the District Attorney the other fact you told us?”

  Danya shrugs. “Yeah, sure, why not?”

  “Ms. Dickert has a police record in Florida,” Huff says.

  “Mrs. Sunderland, if you don’t mind!” Danya corrects him.

  Packer winces. “For what crime?”

  “I forged a couple of checks and used a credit card that wasn’t mine, okay? I got probation. But I know it could look like I was in on whatever Burt’s got me into. And I wasn’t. I swear!”