Bern was thinking, Not even close, as he tossed the article aside.
There was another packet of Xeroxed clippings, these more recent.
MILWAUKEE POLICE SEEK SERIAL RAPIST
There were several like that. But there were also stories about assaults that took place in Appleton…Sauk City…Prairie du Chien…that Bern wasn’t involved with. No association whatsoever.
Just like the old bastard to blame him for crap he didn’t do.
Bern couldn’t say the same about stories in the Miami Herald and the Tampa Tribune.
HOPE FADES FOR MISSING GAINESVILLE COED.
MOTHER OF TWO DISAPPEARS FROM MALL
They gave him a chill. He’d never meant it to go that way. But sometimes shit happened.
The old man had circled a paragraph that read, “A witness who encountered the suspect prior to the student’s abduction described the man as ‘gigantic’ and said he had a distinctive regional accent. Police believe the suspect left so many clues, they will be able to identify him soon.”
On the clipping, his grandfather had written: “Stupid amateur!”
What did that mean?
Bern opened the second envelope, thinking: She’s been in that oil drum nearly a year and not a soul’s come snooping. What’s so stupid about that?
Inside the second envelope, sent by the old man’s personal assistant, were copies of handwritten bills of sale that were similar to the ones Bern had found in the foul-smelling briefcase. All dated between 1939 and October 1944, and attached to legal descriptions of land his grandfather had bought.
Stole, more like it, judging from some of the prices.
Wait…that wasn’t fair. The old man was a sadistic bully, sure, but his business skills were hall of fame. He was tough, foresighted, shrewd—qualities Bern had yet to demonstrate, but hoped they were lying dormant somewhere inside.
He read a few of the bills of sale.
For a parcel of land, 22 acres more or less, running from the bayside of Marco Island to the beach, legal description attached, sale is hereby consummated in consideration of payment of $1,750 cash…
How much would an acre of Marco Island beachfront sell for today?
Millions.
There was a bill of sale for three acres, “bay to beach,” on Captiva Island—$600. Seven acres on Siesta Key—$350. Ten acres Clearwater Beach—$1,300.
Today, these three properties alone would be worth sixty, seventy million dollars. There were more receipts for acreage he’d purchased, fifteen…no, twenty-three more bills of sale. All beach or bayfront, with the exception of twenty-six acres he bought in Orlando—June 1943—lakefront acreage, cost: $2,145.
The company still owned the parcel, had yet to develop it.
The old man had sold some of his holdings to capitalize his developments. But there was still a lot of raw land in the portfolio. Bern made a mental note to look next time he was at the home office in Appleton. He had every right to do it. In fact, the bozos at the home office might as well get used to him poking around. As long as the company remained solvent for two years—actually, twenty-three months and counting—fifty-one percent of the Florida land company would belong to Bern. Plus, he’d get back his personal assets, which he’d signed over, so he had a vested interest.
Which was no big deal. He hadn’t played long enough in the NFL to get part of that rich profit-sharing pension. His little piss-poor retirement savings from Gimpel’s, some Cadillac stock, combined, worth around fifteen thousand dollars. Shirley had a collection of Hummel figurines she claimed was worth fifty or sixty thousand—maybe true, if God dropped everything else and zapped Michael Jackson knickknack crazy—and they still had ten years left on their home mortgage.
Before moving to Florida, Bern wasn’t worth much. Stick it out another year, though, stay out of the Hoosier’s line of fire, and he’d be wealthier than a lot of quarterbacks who owned car dealerships and restaurants.
Nothing too hard about that. Right?
B ern picked up Mr. Mothball’s letter, the one enclosed with the bills of sale, not the cover letter. He knew right away it was trouble from the way it started.
Jesus, now what…
Bernard, This is confidential. If you can’t honor that, please review the enclosed envelope containing newspaper clippings which are representative of a file your grandfather kept…
Here we go.
I have disturbing news regarding the corporation’s Florida land company, your contractual employer. A woman claims to have promissory notes signed by your grandfather dating back to 1939. If authentic, they may cloud titles of real estate holdings worth many millions. Copies of bills of sale are enclosed…
Shit!
Bern threw the letter down, went to the fridge and got a Grolsch beer, green bottle, porcelain stopper. He opened the beer, poured it into a quart glass, and drank half of it, getting that cold hops taste from the bubbles.
He scowled at the letter as he finished the beer—Sonuvabitch!—then went to the fridge for another before returning to the desk.
…the woman’s name is Mildred C. Engle. She is the heir of Marlissa Dorn, who was an actress, and said to be one of the great beauties of her time. I received your phone message inquiring about a photo in your possession. It was taken of Ms. Dorn in 1938, prior to her arrival in the United States…
Perfect. He finds out the old bag’s name now, when he’s too upset to think about sex even with a young woman. Bern reached, retrieved the photo from a stack of papers, and looked at the woman’s face again, her smoldering eyes.
Marlissa Dorn, huh? She couldn’t have been much of an actress. He’d never heard of her. Which was probably why she was screwing the old man. Money.
He dropped the photo and continued reading.
No. Just the opposite was true…
From 1939 to 1944, while living in Florida, your grandfather and Ms. Dorn were friends, and hoped to marry. During this period, Ms. Dorn loaned your grandfather small sums of money to purchase real estate that only he, at the time, recognized as valuable. In the autumn of 1944, however, your grandfather discovered Ms. Dorn had been unfaithful, and he left Florida soon thereafter. He did not attempt to contact her until he returned to the United States in 1955, by then happily married to your grandmother…
So, the old man was screwing the movie queen—until he caught her screwing someone else. That, at least, was interesting. But did Jason have to lay out his grandfather’s life story before telling Bern how, exactly, he was getting it up the butt again, compliments of the old man?
Bern chugged the beer, slammed the glass down, and skipped ahead to the second page, skimming key passages.
…unaware of Ms. Dorn’s death, and we could find no record…most promissory notes contain a payoff date, but these were “interest only” notes, a kindness to your grandfather, it seemed at the time…
…statutes of limitations do not apply to undated notes…even without considerations of interest due, attorney fees in a case that will go on for years…Our company losses could be in the millions…
Sadly, we wouldn’t be in this position if your grandfather had not attempted to make amends for the unpaid debt prior to his death, and do what was just and ethical…
Okay, finally, Jason was getting to the important part. The little twerp always started with some outrageous lie before kicking you in the teeth—probably hoping to get a smile. The old man had never done anything just or ethical in his life.
…when your grandfather realized our acquisitions department had, coincidentally, purchased the estate where Ms. Dorn had once resided, he contacted her family anonymously, through this office. He offered her heirs free use of the beach home until the company sold or developed the property. It was a magnanimous gesture, made by a dying man who wanted to do the right thing…
Bought the property “coincidentally”?
That was a laugh. The acquisitions department consisted of only one person who had any say: Frede
rick Roth. If he bought the movie queen’s house, it was the gesture of a dying man who wanted to fuck her over because she’d fucked him over. Screwing her heirs was close enough—the old man’s way of tidying up accounts prior to moving along to his own corner of Hell, where he’d probably already been promoted to an executive position.
But how was he screwing them over, letting the movie queen’s family use the place for free? Bern continued reading.
A few weeks ago, Ms. Dorn’s heir, Mildred Engle, upon learning your grandfather’s identity, contacted me about the promissory notes. Instead of being grateful for his generosity, she threatened legal action. Ms. Engle wants compensation equal to the current value of properties purchased with Ms. Dorn’s money.
If Ms. Engle can produce the original promissory notes, many of the company’s titled assets will be clouded. I feel we should consider dissolving the company in advance, and thereby making our assets less vulnerable…
Dissolve the company.
Fuck!
Bern’s was hyperventilating, his heart pounding. Dissolve the company and he would lose his job, his inheritance, his savings, his car, his home in Wisconsin. Everything.
That ruthless, miserable bastard.
Forgiveness is for people who don’t have the balls for revenge—one of his grandfather’s favorite sayings. But Bern, hounded by his slob of a wife, had gone ahead and signed the contract anyway.
How could I be so goddamn dumb?
36
Bern spent a moment punishing himself by revisiting the old man’s traps in orderly succession: the offer of a job, a big salary, the contractual guarantee that he’d inherit fifty-one percent of the company if it remained solvent for two years after his grandfather’s death. The requirement that he and Shirley sign over their piss-poor savings to a company worth several hundred million dollars…
Now this.
Bern balled his fist and hit himself on the side of the head. Really fucking dumb, that’s how dumb he could be. He’d been suspicious of his grandfather’s generosity from the first. The grandfather who Bern, at the age of thirteen, had tried to kill by sneaking up from behind with a ball-peen hammer. The grandfather who, more than once, referred to him as “a failed experiment,” and “an embarrassment to the race.” But he’d gone ahead and accepted the deal anyway.
Bern was thinking: I am fucked. I am an embarrassment to the race.
He’d probably been adopted from some half-wit floozy, courtesy of a little town in southern Indiana where he was related to a whole population of village idiots, including his long-lost retard brother, Moe.
Bern turned his face to the ceiling and screamed, “Why are you doing this to me?!”
He stood, knocking over the chair, lifted the beer mug and shattered it against the wall. Marlissa Dorn stared at him from the table. He was about to lose everything because of this woman’s relative, some lawsuit-happy bitch named Mildred Engle. Bern grabbed the photo, balled it into a wad—You whore!—and hurled it at the window.
His hands were sweating.
He felt a roaring pain in his head. Bern paced for a few minutes, and got another beer, before he took the letter and finished reading.
Jason wanted him to contact the lawsuit-happy bitch and attempt to negotiate a settlement. “Treat her with respect, charm her if you can,” the twerp suggested. Bern had until the family’s Appleton Christmas reunion. That would give the board time to agree on the best method of dissolving the company.
We must have the original promissory notes. Without them, Ms. Engle has no claim. She lives on Sanibel Island, Gulf Drive, at an estate named Southwind…
Bern crumpled the letter and punted it like a football—and damn near fell on his ass, he was so furious.
Perfect.
Oh, he’d charm the bitch, all right. She was threatening to ruin his life with some damn old pieces of paper? An introduction to a game named Caveman, that’s what the woman needed. Have an oil drum open and ready, the Viking packed, waiting to cruise to his own private island. Get the woman naked, all worked up, then jam her in the barrel while she was still alive…
Bern stopped, head cocked, then looked out the condo’s front window. A small boat was coming down the canal, no lights. Looked like a mullet boat.
The mood he was in, he hoped it was somebody coming to rob the place. He got his Luger, checked to see if it was loaded, and rushed outside ready to shoot the shit out of whoever it was. Say the wrong word, give him any lip at all, and bang.
Turned out to be Arlis what’s his name, the old man they’d just fired, bringing Augie and his worthless butt-buddy, Oswald, home from Dinkin’s Bay.
The Viking must have broken down or run out of fuel.
Why else would the little shit need a ride from Sanibel?
A rlis Futch was a perfect example of someone who got his rocks off being negative. The old man sat by the seawall in his shitty-looking mullet boat, laughing like a loon, while Augie told Bern that the nerd biologist, Ford, and his Dinkin’s Bay buddies had stolen the Viking from them.
“Did you call the cops?” Bern asked.
Augie was in a smart-ass mood after a long day on the water, almost drowning, and also aware he was being laughed at. Old man Futch had been riding his ass relentlessly for the last hour. “Call the cops and tell them what?” he asked Bern. “Tell them that they salvaged the same boat legally that we salvaged illegally? Fuck ’em. They stole the Viking from us, I’ll steal it back. I’ve got a spare set of keys in my condo.”
Bern didn’t grab the snotty little brat, or slap him as he had before. He stepped and raised his left hand, causing Augie to flinch, then hit him in the face with his fist, a crushing overhand right that busted the kid’s nose flat, opening flesh cheek to eye.
“You oversized bully. You son of a bitch, you hurt him!” Trippe Oswald, the bubble-butted twerp, showed some spunk for once, kneeling beside Augie, who hadn’t moved except for a muscle spasm that was causing his right foot to twitch.
Bern was still furious, having just learned that everything he owned was about to go down the shitter because of promissory notes in the possession of some old lady. Now Augie was telling him his last hope of escape, the Viking, was gone?
“Where’s the key to Augie’s condo? Don’t lie to me, you little fairy, where’s he keep it?”
Oswald didn’t answer, he was so scared.
“Goddamn you, I am about at the end of my rope. Where?”
Bern grabbed Oswald by the T-shirt, the German Luger in his hand now, the gun he’d grabbed thinking the boat with no lights coming down the canal was a robber, wanting to shoot somebody. Anybody.
Oswald formed words. “All our shit’s on the Viking, man. Keys, wallets, everything. It wasn’t our fault!” Bern drew back the Luger as if to pistol-whip him. “But there’s another key! At Augie’s condo, the key to the door’s hidden under a flowerpot! The boat key is somewhere in his room.”
Bern wanted to shoot the disgusting little snitch. But old man Arlis Futch was there, still watching and laughing. Probably for the best, too. Knocking Augie unconscious would be tough enough to explain at the Christmas reunion in Appleton. But then killing his boyfriend?
That kind of talk, an ex–professional football player didn’t need.
Instead, Bern smacked Oswald aside the head with the pistol. Not hard, but the snitch went down like he’d been poleaxed, looking like he was unconscious but was faking it.
The old man thought that was hilarious.
Bern swung the pistol at Futch and held it there, taking aim. The old man saw it but continued to laugh. Forced himself to laugh for a while longer so Bern could see that if he stopped, it was only because he wanted to.
Arlis Futch stopped laughing a moment later, and said in a low voice, “Go ahead and shoot, you fat fuck. Being old’s a lot scarier than dying. You’d be doing me a favor.” And meant it. Sounding like he had been a serious hard-ass in his younger years.
Then said, l
ooking at the marina docks, all the boats sitting near the collapsed barn, “You shot and murdered Javier? I heard about it on the VHF. Did you, you fat asshole?”
Bern was thinking: I squeeze the trigger, then tell the cops the old bastard was attacking me.
But two corpses in one day?
That would only produce more trouble, more bad luck, which was typical of all the negative crap he’d been dealing with lately.
The old man wouldn’t shut up. “If it turns out you murdered a fisherman, what you better do, boy, is pack your shit and run back to whatever hole you crawled out of. Don’t be surprised if someone torches this place in the next few days. The way I picture it, you’ll be tied up inside one of the buildings when we light the match. All that fat you got, I bet you sputter!”
A very negative guy, this Cracker fisherman. Scary, too, for an old man.
B ern left Arlis Futch in the boat, and Oswald to tend to Augie, while he drove his Beamer to Augie’s condo. The place was a mess: crushed beer cans, ashtrays, porno DVDs. Bern found the keys to the Viking in Augie’s room. He looked around: a king-sized water bed, half the closet filled with Oswald’s clothes, some weird-looking stuff in a jar by the nightstand.
He also found several FedEx envelopes, addressed to Augie from Jason Goddard. It appeared that Augie received a package every time Bern did—but different stuff inside, cover letters included.
An example:
…confidentially, your great-grandfather asked me to send his personal effects, along with his reassurance that your inheritance will be substantially increased once your uncle, Bernard Heller, is proven incompetent.
Once our board is convinced…
So…the little bastard had been sabotaging him all along; Jason, too—which explained a lot.
The promissory notes were mentioned. They were real, not bullshit. Soon to be in the possession of the old lady who was living on Sanibel. None of this too surprising.
In another FedEx envelope, though, was a major shocker—as shocking as the passport that verified his grandfather was a Jew.
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