The Last Refuge sahm-1

by Chris Knopf

  “Actually, I need another favor.”

  “Now who’s smoking dope?”

  “Just drive to the Village with me. I’ll tell you everything on the way.”

  She squinted at me as if contemplating a right hook. Probably pack a more effective punch than Jimmy Maddox.

  “You think I have nothing else to do?”

  “Okay. You’re hired.”

  “What?”

  “You’re hired. For real this time. Where do I sign?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Your last client just shot himself. You got an opening.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Come on. We gotta move. I’m not paying you to just stand around.”

  Eddie was unhappy in the back seat of the Grand Prix. I rolled the windows down so he could stick out his head. The wind made it hard to talk, but I felt I owed him, after leaving him inside for so long the day before. I was still able to tell Jackie the gist of what I wanted to tell her before we got to the big parking lot behind Main Street. I gave it to her in a disorganized, disconnected jumble, without a lot of detail, but that was fine. If I’d told her more she’d have bailed out of the car.

  “What’s my role here again?” she asked as I parked the Grand Prix behind the bank.

  “Bodyguard.”

  “Great.”

  “Just stay alert and watch my back.”

  “Speaking metaphorically.”

  “Right.”

  You could get to the main floor of Harbor Trust through a rear entrance off the parking lot. It was a simple glass door with the bank’s name stenciled in bright gold leaf. Inside was a long corridor that opened up into a big room with all the tellers, loan officers and personal bankers at their stations. I never came in this way, so it took a few moments to locate Amanda. She was at her desk, staring at her computer. She almost missed us walking by, but at the last moment her eyes left the screen and locked on to mine. She looked startled.

  “We’re here to see Roy,” I said, without stopping, though I tried to look breezy and offhand. Her eyes shot to Jackie Swaitkowski. I smiled and waved as we walked by the other personal bankers and up to the guy who manned the desk right outside Roy Battiston’s office. I didn’t know what his official job was, but I thought he’d suit the purpose.

  “I’m Sam Acquillo. This is Attorney Jacqueline Swaitkowski. We’re here to see Mr. Battiston.”

  The guy automatically looked over his shoulder at Roy’s door.

  “I’m not sure he’s in. Can I say what it’s about?”

  “Just tell him who’s here. He’ll see us,” I said. Then to Jackie, “His car’s in the lot.”

  The guy went back to Roy’s office and disappeared through the door. Jackie and I stood there and waited. Amanda was frozen in her seat, her hands motionless on the keyboard, her face taut. And alert. The other bank employees ignored us, going about their silent tasks with an air of placid resolve. There were customers in line at the tellers and a few at the desks of personal bankers, or waiting, seated on wood-frame benches upholstered in synthetic suede. No canned music, I noticed, gratefully.

  The guy came out and closed the door behind him, but not before I saw Roy at his desk, in shirtsleeves, writing something on a pad.

  “Just give him a few minutes,” the guy said, then sat back down at his desk.

  We went back to standing there in the dead calm of the bank. Jackie was doing a good job of looking neutral and disinterested. As if she had complete command of the situation. Poised and prepared for any eventuality.

  I was beginning to wonder if there was another way out of Roy’s office when the door opened and he waved us in. He still had his assertive, can-do handshake, but his palm was hot and wet.

  “Sam. Jackie.”

  “Hi, Roy,” I said.

  “You know each other,” he said, in a way that was part question, part revelation.

  “Jackie’s my lawyer,” I said to him as I sank into one of his two herculean guest chairs. Jackie took the other. She manifested a fine lawyerly posture, even though she was dressed like she’d just come from mucking out a stall.

  “I’ve worked with Jackie,” said Roy, dropping into his own chair behind the desk, “right?”

  She nodded. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. He quickly gave up waiting.

  Roy didn’t look too good. His skin was moist, adding a slight sheen to his bloodless complexion. He had the type of head that was more narrow at the top then the bottom. It expanded at the jawline, causing a jowly bulge he’d probably never lose even if he starved to death.

  “So, folks, what can I do for you?”

  His office was paneled in a light walnut ply, the carpet was deep green, his desk was chrome and covered in a laminate reminiscent of the masonite found in basement remodeling projects. No photos or trophies or insipid executive games you get for Christmas from your family, or as a token of appreciation for speaking to the Kiwanis. There were two tables flanking the desk like outriggers. They were covered with files and stacks of loose paper.

  “I’m here to pick up a document.”

  I thought Roy looked relieved.

  “Okay. Maybe Amanda could help you.”

  “You know I’m the administrator of Regina Broadhurst’s estate.”

  “Of course. We had her account as well. Amanda can pull the records, make copies.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  He still had the look of helpful curiosity.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. Why don’t you tell me.”

  It was never easy being Roy Battiston. He must have realized at an early age he was the only one in his family who could think. As he moved through school and got to know other kids and other families, as he read and looked around at people in Town, he must have been appalled at what fate had allotted him. Taunted, probably, like all chubby kids with glasses and intelligence, but worse for him, with his bad clothes and embarrassing relatives. The awakening must have dawned slowly, but then steadily strengthened, driving him deeper into his own mind. Forming a bedrock of worry and resentment. And eventually hunger took hold. Desire. Enflamed by the secret knowledge that he could do things nobody ever suspected he could do. Propelled by determination and conviction. Maybe a promise to himself to soothe away the pain with achievement. To cleanse shame with success, the kind that mattered to people who mattered to him.

  I never knew Roy very well, but I understood what happened to him.

  “The trust. Carl’s trust. I need to see it.”

  He started to fall back into his chair, thought better of it, and sat back up again. He put both hands palm down on the desk and took a deep breath.

  “I really don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “As administrator of Regina’s estate,” said Jackie, “Sam has the obligation to identify and adjudicate all surviving assets and liabilities. Even those Regina may have been unaware of.”

  Roy’s face had moistened even more while we talked, though his voice was still evenly modulated. The real story was in his eyes. Even behind his glasses I could see they were lit with alarm.

  “You might have an opinion on this,” I said to Roy. “You think Hornsby planned it all along, or just let it happen?”

  “Let what happen? Milton Hornsby was a business partner of mine. I have no other opinion of him.”

  “Really. So you didn’t know Bay Side Holdings was owned by a trust created to manage the assets of a guy who’d been dead for over twenty years.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Personally, I think he just let it happen. Things just sort of flowed along and there was nobody there to do anything about it. After Carl and WB crapped out, Hornsby just kept right on going, paying bills, filing tax returns, complying with every statute and regulation and generally keeping his head down. Meanwhile siphoning off a nice income for himself.

  “Oh, and keeping the monthly allowances going to Regina and your mother-in-law. Barel
y enough to live on, especially when you think about what was there, but on time, every month.”

  Roy’s face finally took on a little color. A bright dab of red on each cheek.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “We know everything, Roy,” said Jackie. “The only question is what we’re going to do about it.”

  “No, I disagree. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He surprised me by half standing up from his chair. I stood up all the way.

  “Sit down, Roy. You need to listen carefully. Concentrate on what we’re saying. This is the only chance you’re going to get.”

  He slowly sank back down in his chair. So did I, trying to get comfortable in that scratchy upholstery.

  Roy knew that Hornsby was a lawyer and the CFO of WB Manufacturing, but I told him again anyway. It was partly for Jackie’s benefit. I went on to tell them about Carl Bollard Senior, who had set up a trust after his wife died, realizing his wayward son was next in line. Anticipating his own demise, he wanted a way to keep a leash on Carl Junior, preserve the assets of the estate and keep the plant in operation. It gave Carl Junior five years to grow up. After that, he got everything no matter what. At some point, Carl Senior named his young CFO, Milton Hornsby, the trustee, probably to tie his son more tightly to the family business.

  This was prescient, because the next thing Carl Senior did was die, leaving Hornsby in control of the company, all its property and assets, and Carl Junior’s personal fortune. And consequently, Carl Junior himself. As it turned out, both guys were fine with the deal, given the tidy quid pro quo. Carl got to live like a king, or rather a legitimate CEO, while Hornsby basically ran the show. Carl was probably more than happy to let him. Hornsby was a lot younger than Carl, but he was Carl’s fairy godfather.

  And the trust was his magic wand. No better way to plaster over Carl’s indiscretions. Carl was rich, spoiled and wild, and plugged into the Hamptons’ social scene. Regina worked at WB, in the plant. Handsome girl and hard as nails. But not too smart about men. He scoops her up, a few drinks, a few laughs, the usual ensues. He’s not about to marry her, but he takes care of her, financially anyway. Out of conscience or fear, who knows. Regina was never anybody you’d want to cross, at least not out where she could see you.

  By 1960, Carl Junior has full control of the trust. He simply orders Hornsby to write Regina into the deal as a full beneficiary and installs her in a house on company property. The only hitch is now that Regina’s an equal beneficiary of the trust, she’s also an equal partner in the whole enterprise. Technically. But it really doesn’t matter because she doesn’t know it. Why should she? Carl’s not entirely stupid. And Hornsby sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her. He figures in a few years Carl will come to his senses, Hornsby can just scratch her off the list and WB can go on its merry way.

  Roy was listening to me, but not happily. He kept trying to get comfortable in his chair, as if they’d just bought it for him and it wasn’t yet broken in.

  “I really don’t know what all this has to do with me or Harbor Trust,” he said.

  I ignored him.

  “Trouble is, guys like Carl Bollard make a habit of fucking up. New chick shows up in the office, probably in the typing pool, sexy little Italian named Julia Anselma. Bippin’ around the office in those hot fifties fashions. Before you know it, Carl’s at it again.”

  “Carl Bollard was Julia’s boss,” said Roy, as if disputing the notion.

  “Right. Only this time, there’s another wrinkle. The chickie on the side produces a chicklet. Your wife, as it turns out.”

  Roy’s face went slack as he saw the rest of his life board a train and leave the station.

  “By the time Amanda was born, Carl had moved on to another girl. But Julia got the same deal as Regina. A lifetime of security in exchange for a zipped lip. Say what you will, I think Julia did a brave thing. She gave Amanda a safe, comfortable upbringing, with a minimum of turmoil. All she had to do was keep a secret.”

  I hadn’t told Jackie about Julia or Amanda. But she still maintained her professional reserve. The girl had good game.

  “Of course, Julia doesn’t know about the trust either. Though you can just hear Milton Hornsby excoriating Carl, ‘No more! This one is the last!’ He wasn’t a nice guy, Hornsby, but you can’t blame him for being a little frustrated. Here he is busting ass for the company, building it up and keeping it running through all kinds of tough times, only to find himself babysitting the spoiled, screwed-up son of the founder, who winds up owning everything, while Hornsby is left to play loyal family retainer. Must have really eaten him up.

  “Lucky for him, though, Carl’s go-go lifestyle also featured oceans of alcohol, so right after the company folds, so does Carl. That’s when Hornsby decides it’s payback time. Carl’s will left all his assets to the trust. Since Regina and Julia are listed as surviving beneficiaries, the trust is technically still in force, controlling all the assets, the girls just don’t know it.”

  “You have to register wills on the death of the signer,” said Jackie, interrupting, “but not trusts. It’s up to the trustee to come forward with that kind of information.”

  “Hornsby does everything but. He closes down the plant, pays debts and corporate taxes, fills out forms, satisfies employee claims, sells off viable equipment. Zip-zip, the estate is now pretty clean. Just the real-estate and investment portfolio, which covers the estate tax and still throws off enough revenue to keep the whole thing going. And that’s where it sits for about twenty years.

  “Until you came along, huh Roy?” I said.

  By now he had his head in his hands, finally unable to support the weight of his fear.

  “You finally score the prettiest girl in the class. She’s a bit of a basket case, but what the hell. She’s willing to be looked after, and who knows, over time, maybe she’ll really dig you. You like her mother, like to chat it up over Thanksgiving dinner. You’re a local Southampton guy, obsessed with money, and a banker to boot, a guy who knows real estate. Wouldn’t be surprising for you to ask, ‘So, Julia, your mortgage all paid off?’ ‘Oh, no, Roy, we don’t own the house, it belongs to my old company, WB Manufacturing. It’s an arrangement.’ ‘It is?’ thinks Roy, ‘How could that be?’ Easy enough to check your mother-in-law’s account at Harbor Trust and see the monthly direct deposits, then trace the ownership of her house through the tax rolls to Bay Side Holdings, which leads directly to pay dirt. Milton Hornsby. Carl Bollard’s loyal CFO, livin’ large in Sag Harbor.”

  “You caught Hornsby violating his fiduciary duty. A very serious matter,” said Jackie, swept up in the moment, or maybe just offended by Hornsby’s professional lapse.

  “Must have been quite a conversation,” I said. “You’re married to Amanda, after all. What’s hers is yours. The simple, easy thing would be to expose Hornsby and just take control of the assets. But you’re an ambitious boy who lusts after the Big Play. Why settle for a bunch of millions when you can have gobs of millions? Better yet, be the power behind a huge development scheme. Have the same people who’ve ignored you or treated you like white trash kissing your ass. And why wait for the ponderous legal system to sort it out when you can have it all now. I mean, if Milton Hornsby could keep it secret, why couldn’t Roy?”

  “You make Hornsby an offer,” said Jackie. “Total ruin or help you develop the property. As far as anyone knows, Bay Side Holdings is a legitimate entity, with Milton Hornsby the controlling party. No need to messy up the deal with the actual facts.”

  I’d been staring hard at Roy while I talked, but now I snuck a peek over at Jackie. I could feel her flair for outrage about to ignite.

  “So now you got Hornsby playing property owner, but you need a developer,” I said. “Hornsby suggests another WB alum, Bob Sobol, whom Hornsby knows will keep his mouth shut and make useful connections, inside and outside the legal lines.

  “The three of you put a plan together. You handl
e financing, of course, which gives you a reason to visit the home office on a regular basis. Which also makes it easy to stay in touch with architects and planners in the City, avoiding locals so the plan won’t leak prematurely.”

  I heard Jackie give a tiny, barely audible snort.

  “Everything’s cookin’ right along until you’re ready to subdivide the property to suit modern development. Bay Side might own everything, but property lines are regulated by the Town. You need variances. Which means you have to go before the zoning appeals board.”

  “Not a problem,” said Jackie. “Sobol brings in Hunter Johnson, a hotshot from the City, and teams him up with me, who I must say commands the local scene, and we put together an excellent case. Big, and complicated, but nothing the Town hasn’t seen before. Except for the ratty old plant sitting in the middle of the concept. It’s an obstacle. But not insurmountable. It just means a wider than normal scope for a variance request. Everyone on Jacob’s Neck and Oak Point has to be notified. And invited to a public hearing.”

  “Including Regina,” I shot in before she could get there. “It suddenly dawns on you—when notice goes out to Regina, who knows what’ll happen? Who knows what she’s going to say, and to whom? Everything’s legally half hers—what if she finds out? Julia Anselma didn’t know anything, but who knows about Regina? She’s a crazy old broad, with a big mouth. Can you afford to take the chance?

  “You panic. Shut it all down. And wait. Hoping something will come to you. A way out. A way to get everything back in gear. The pause is great for Hornsby—takes the heat off. But not so great for Sobol. He’s still young enough to enjoy a big windfall. And he’s not happy that the only thing standing in his way is a few old ladies.”

  Roy was still holding his head, with his eyes closed, but as we talked he started to shake it back and forth.

  “Are you listening, Roy?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Good, I’m not done yet.”

  He stayed still.

  “I don’t know how it worked. If you talked about it, if you were actively involved, or if Sobol took care of everything himself and kept you and Hornsby in the clear. Sobol got to know both the old girls by hanging around the Senior Center. He could have worked it out all by himself. He used to be in quality control. I could see an engineer’s touch in how it was handled. I don’t think it was Buddy. He’s just muscle.”