Memorial

by Bruce Wagner

  The scenario she described was basically the same they employed with other victims. One thing puzzled him, though. Usually, “Mr Weyerhauser, et al” pressed their “marks” for more money—if the well hadn’t run dry, they’d find a way to “dip their bucket.” In Marjorie’s case, it seemed the gang stopped short, which seemed “irregular.” They were outrageously bold, almost recklessly so, and in the agent’s experience, grew bolder upon sensing the law closing in—almost a way of tweaking their noses at Marone and his men.

  “Aside from the big check you wrote, did he ask for any more monies?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She was confused. Which check was he talking about?

  “The one for $565,000.”

  That just didn’t sound right. Could it have been so much?

  She blanched, feeling the fool again. He picked up on that, handing her the glass of water that sat on the table.

  “I know this is difficult, Mrs Herlihy. But I think you should consider yourself lucky. Most of the time these people prefer wire transfers—the money is then laundered overseas. They have electronic mail-drops where nothing can be traced. This particular group of individuals is off the charts in their degree of sophistication. Very creative. And they clearly enjoy their work! That’s why I’m so anxious to get my hands on them—I enjoy my work as well, and they’re going to find out just how much, believe me. Now, it’s fairly unusual that our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ didn’t become more aggressive about getting a hold of the remainder. (And believe me, they knew exactly what you had, to the penny.) They call that the ‘reload.’ That’s the parlance. And that they didn’t, I think, shows a fair measure of desperation—which is good. But not so good in terms of our catching up with them. I’m worried that they’ve skipped town; maybe even the country. I haven’t put all the pieces together, but one of our main concerns is that he may have learned we were getting extremely close to an arrest. In that case, our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ may have sped things up a bit. Cut his losses, so to speak. But, I want to stress, compared to some of the other marks I’ve spoken to—and remember, these are well-educated people, just like yourself—you, Mrs Herlihy, are one of the lucky ones.”

  “I don’t feel very lucky!” she said, with a gracious smile.

  “I didn’t mean that to sound the way it did. And I shouldn’t have said ‘mark.’ It’s a lousy word.”

  “Oh, that’s all right!”

  “Is there anything I can do, to help you out? I mean, aside from finding the sonofabitch, pardon my French.”

  “Well…I haven’t told my daughter yet. I’ve been wanting to call, but I’m just—so—embarrassed.”

  “What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Joan. She’s an architect.”

  “Would you like my professional opinion, Mrs Herlihy?”

  “Yes!”

  “I think you should call her. I think you could use all the help and support that’s available, and much of that will come from family. Your daughter is going to have a measure of sophistication and…objectivity—and believe me she is going to want to help—that’s what family is for. You need to know that what happened to you happens to thousands of good people each year. It’s pandemic. And you have to remember it’s the other guys who are bad. You didn’t do anything wrong, Mrs Herlihy. All you did was hope, and trust. So: make the call. Don’t leave your daughter out of this, you can’t afford to—and I don’t mean financially.” He stood. “And not to worry. We’ll catch these guys.”

  Before he left, he told her that a “trap” had been installed on the phone line, just in case “our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ ” tried contacting her again. (He didn’t think that likely.) Agent Marone said she could make and receive calls as she normally did; she wouldn’t even know it was there. He also assured her that no one would be listening in on conversations. She was, of course, to alert him immediately should anyone from the gang get in touch.

  SHE felt a little better, but couldn’t bring herself to think about having lost most of Ham’s legacy. He’d have been so upset with her. How stupid! One always expected this sort of disaster to happen to others—but there she was.

  She went next door.

  The grandkids were trying to play with Pahrump, but he cowered in a corner as if they were strangers. Cora said the veterinary people told her that wasn’t uncommon, given what her baby went through. She said that a special psychologist who knew the inner workings of the minds of dogs was going to make a housecall and maybe put Mr P on television. The grandchildren were so excited about the prospect, you would have thought it was Christmas! The world would finally see Pahrump for what he was—King Charles the 1st!

  EARLY that evening, Agent Marone called. “Are you sitting down?” he said, warmly. There was a break in the case and they were about to make an arrest. He asked if he could drop by. “I have a little present for you.”

  He came within the hour, accompanied by a woman in a blue business suit who worked at Wells. She smiled and presented Marj with a check for a hundred-thousand dollars. That was the amount the old woman’s money market account was insured for by the FDIC—and because of Agent Marone’s efforts, the bank had drastically shortened the reimbursement period, cutting through the red tape with a little-known statute that such funds might possibly be used to aid an ongoing federal investigation.

  The agent winked at Marj and said, “We have our methods.”

  She wiped away a tear and thanked both of them.

  “This is marvelous.”

  “A hundred thousand down, 450,000 to go,” he said, patting her arm.

  But he’d said they were about to make an arrest…

  “2 people matching the descriptions of ‘Bonita’ and our ‘Mr Weyerhauser’ were in your branch only hours ago, just as it was closing. Guess what they wanted to know: your current balance. Now, that was a gross misstep—and a clear indication the gang is getting sloppy.”

  “My balance?”

  She was befuddled.

  “They told the clerk that you were ill, and they’d been granted POA—power of attorney.”

  The woman in the business suit spoke up.

  “They even presented documents to my branch manager—very authentic-looking documents—a fairly amazing thing to do considering the current climate of fraud directed toward the elderly.”

  “It’s the equivalent of waving a red flag—and they know it.”

  “I’ve been in this business many years and stranger things have happened, but this…well, it’s pretty close to flabbergasting. They were cool as cucumbers.”

  “And this is one cucumber we’re going to slice and dice—with your help, Mrs Herlihy.”

  “It’s like a Sherlock Holmes!” said Marj.

  “We’ll make a Miss Marple out of you yet,” said the agent.

  LXI.

  Joan

  HE asked her to fly with him to Paris for the weekend.

  They hadn’t discussed the pregnancy any further.

  There were 3 pilots and 3 stewards, 2 master suites, and a full spa. The bathrooms had special black toilet paper from Spain.

  She was a little under the weather, but the Ritz didn’t make her feel any worse. On both days, Lew had a full slate of meetings, except for when he insisted she come with him to the Marais to look at a 4 foot tall 122-lb Christian Bailly automata, a complex mechanical figure called the Bird Trainer, in the lineage of 18th century creations. It took 6 years to build. 6 years = $6,000,000. Joan thought everyone was kidding.

  She liked spending time alone.

  The Bentley—which for some reason had a sink in the back—shuttled her to anonymous vintage clothiers, hidden away in unlikely arrondissements. Lew kept the car in its own climate-controlled “condo,” and the driver-caretaker lived above. He could view his collection, including a Czech Tantra 87 and a 1933 Maybach Zeppelin, on a Webcam from wherever he was in the world. He told her the Maybach’s orange paint had been matched to a Moroccan ex girlfriend�
��s pubes. Joan said, “TMI, Lew,” and he laughed.

  A boutique in the hotel sold 35-hundred dollar Japanese jeans (woven with platinum strands), a knee-length jacket made out of fetuses cut from ewes’ carcasses, and a 32,000 dollar cellphone. He wanted to buy them all, for kicks, but she said no 5 times. (When she returned to LA the jeans and phone were waiting for her at ARK. At least he didn’t send the coat.) Though he seemed to relish her spirited refusals, he absolutely would not let Joan turn down his offer of a Guerdon credit card. At that point, she caved. He is going to be the father of my child. She bought a 12,000€ belted Lagerfeld dress coat at Anouschka on Avenue du Coq (Catherine Deneuve was having lunch in the vestibule with an employee), a Goyard doctor’s satchel, an incongruous pythonskin ultra P&G bag, a Spaksmannsspjarir sweater with button-on collar, a tacky Andrew Gn coral print coat, a black Lurex Boudicca shirtdress, and a reworked 20s flapper gown from a husband-and-wife team who called themselves E2.

  She walked on the street.

  She hated the bustle—people stuffing their faces with food, on the fly. It was the same all over the world. She hated watching daughters or wives or mistresses attentively watching their fathers or husbands or lovers talk on cellphones: the men usually spoke with bizarre, heightened urgency, as if negotiating with abductors. Everything was so intensely grave and poppycockish, and she knew that if she could understand what was being said it’d be the most mundane thing imaginable.

  She watched television back at the hotel. Larry King again, always a comfort. All Larry, all the time. This one was a BTK rerun. A cop was talking: “I always thought he had the misfortune, given his aspirations, to live in a small media market. He never got the attention of an LA or New York market because he lived in Wichita.” On the BBC, Condi Rice was telling an interviewer that she was a social scientist; Condi was weirdly comforting too. Sexy.

  A soap came on. Some kind of Latin couple. The guy said, “I am not going to make love to you.” The girl said, “You are going to make love to me.” The guy said, “How can you prove you made love to me?” The girl said, “Why would you want to make love to me?” Nothing made sense. Maybe she wasn’t paying enough attention.

  The ads were mostly tourist promos for other countries. She liked the slogans: MADRID ONLY HAPPENS IN MADRID. UGANDA—GIFTED BY NATURE. MALAYSIA TRULY ASIA. DO BUY IN DUBAI. (RWANDA IS FOR LOVERS.) A funny one was aimed at the Arab Emirates; people there were so parched that India was offering trendy new “monsoon mania holidays,” even though recent floods had killed thousands.

  GOA—COME FEEL THE RAIN.

  DARFUR—FEEL THE JANJAWEED.

  Condi’s moment dissolved into a feature on Viktor Yushchenko, he of the toxin-ravaged face. One poll taken said the Ukrainians thought he was shit and things were now worse than before the revolution. But the poll that closed the news segment said 2/3s of the populace were “very happy.” Shit Happy Shit Happy Shit Happy.

  She drowsily focused on another image byte—people in New York shouting, “Where’s my Xbox? They promised Xboxes but it’s a lie!”—before drifting off to sleep.

  THEY were supposed to fly on to the small Swiss town of Rossinière, where Lew had been asked by the widow of the painter Balthus to see a dusktime outdoor puppet show, an invitation which, through the intervention of Louis Benech and Trinnie Trotter (who had codesigned the landscape for one of Samuel’s homes), took months to procure. Setsuko and her daughter, Harumi, lived in “The Grand Chalet,” a converted hotel-castle, supposedly the largest of its kind in Switzerland. But at the last minute, the widow became ill and regretfully informed she must bow out. An intermediary told Lew that Setsuko would still be delighted if he came, even if it meant they might not meet. Since Harumi was in Los Angeles, as much as he wanted to visit the legendary place, Lew decided it wouldn’t be right.

  THEY gave it to Goldsworthy.”

  “What do you mean?” said Joan.

  “I just talked to Eugenie—at Guerdon. They’re flying Andy in from Scotland next week so he can do his walkabout.”

  “Barbet, what are you saying? We already knew that. We knew Andy was going to do something.”

  “And we were correct. But evidently, it’s a little more than ‘something.’ From what I’ve gathered.”

  “Like what?”

  “No details immediately forthcoming.”

  “So it’s totally over?”

  “Let’s say we’ve gone from dark horse to black hole horse.”

  “It isn’t funny.”

  “I’m not laughing, Joan.”

  “Lew would have called me. He’s knows I’m going up there with that fucking maquette!”

  “You still are. And here’s to you, Mrs Frei-berg, Jesus loves you more than you will know. Wo wo wo. Maybe he’s going to make you a different sort of proposal. A decent one. You’ve already won the mother of all commissions, right?”

  “Oh bullshit. Anything on Rem?”

  “Definitely out. Outré. Rien. Rien Koolhaas! At least we didn’t lose to Dutch Schultz. Pointy-head bitch motherfucker.”

  “I cannot believe this.”

  “Well, you’ll always have Paris.”

  She was so angry at Lew and herself and the world that she felt on the verge of serenity.

  “What about the maquette?”

  “Being trucked to Mendocino and delivered in a crate as we speak. In situ. What a situ-ation. Honey, look: I’m drinking and cannot be disturbed. The guys’ll meet you at the property.”

  “But why?”

  “For the unveiling.”

  “Does Lew know about this?”

  “Of course he knows! I told Frieberg I wanted him to see the thing, in the chapel. In twilight time. Goin to the chapel and we’re…gonna get mar-ried—not! Maybe it’ll turn him around. Isn’t that brilliant?”

  “You mean he wants us to go through the motions. Sadist.”

  “Motions? Um, no, not us, that would be you, ma chérie. ‘Distant as the Milky Way’…no shit. Your fucking motions made us who we are today! Or who we aren’t. I meant fucking motions. But don’t worry, Mrs Robinson. Still plenty o’ mems in them thar hills.”

  T hat was last night.

  She’d been home for 2 days, and now it was noon. She turned her phone back on. She was hungover from the Ambien CR. The jet was leaving at 3. Her conversation with Barbet seemed like a bad dream. She didn’t know whether to give it credence; Lew could be playing mindgames. Who was this Eugenie at Guerdon anyway? Maybe Barbet had a mole. A moll. A Molly. A fuckmole. She felt strangely secure, or at least secure in her own insecurities. It was probably because of the baby. As fanatical as it seemed, Joan still wanted the Napa commission more than anything; maybe even more than the child itself.

  She turned on the Impressa and listened to her voicemail while fishing soy milk from the fridge.

  A blasé sobered-up message from Barbet wished her luck. He was going to his house in Rancho Mirage, shorthand for having made a new conquest. The Molly. He sounded depressed, and she knew what he was up to: fucking his way out of it, per usual. Call when you get to Mendocino so I can help coordinate. Completely unnecessary—she’d phone the art guys directly to make sure the model had arrived intact—but it was Barbet’s way of doing the team thing. The ARK thing.

  Pradeep called from Delhi, saying what a wonderful time he had with her and how sorry he was they hadn’t hooked up before he left. Then came 2 rather tentative calls from her mom; she thought about waiting until she returned from up north but decided to check in.

  “Mom? How you doing?”

  “Joanie? Hello.”

  “What’s wrong.” Silence. “Mom, are you all right?”

  “Joanie—something happened.”

  Her heart seized.

  “What is it, Mother?”

  “A man came to the house and said that I won a great deal of money.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Joan, please!”

  “But when?”

  “
A few weeks ago.”

  “Why didn’t you—was he a scammer?”

  “They think so. Yes. Please don’t be mad.”

  “OK. OK. I won’t be mad. I’m not mad.”

  Joan got the details, best as an agitated Marj could deliver, then made her read the phone numbers of Agent Marone and the bank officer so she could get in touch. She realized she’d been abrupt, and told her mother not to worry. She would ring back after making a few calls.

  Shit.

  There were 2 for Agent Marone, and she hoped her mom had gotten them right. She tried the 1st: voicemail. The 2nd was the antifraud division of the FBI. A woman asked if she wanted to be forwarded to his inbox but Joan declined, saying she’d already left a message on his cell. She thought twice and had them transfer, leaving word that she was Marjorie Herlihy’s daughter.

  Then she called the woman at Wells Fargo.

  “This is Cynthia Mulcahy.”

  “Hi, Cynthia. It’s Joan Herlihy, Marjorie Herlihy’s daughter.”

  “Hi, Joan,” said the woman, as if in condolence.

  “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Have you spoken to Agent Marone?”

  “I left a message on his voicemail.”

  “You talked to your mom.”

  “She wouldn’t tell me how much the guy stole.”

  “About $550,000.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “I know,” she said, with a kind of warm yet steely sympathy. “A hundred thousand of that is insured by the FDIC. I’m not sure if your mother told you, but we got that back to her, and it’s resting in a special account. There’s no way that anyone—except Marjorie, of course—can get to it.”