Memorial

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Memorial Page 32

by Bruce Wagner


  “But how are you going to catch the guy? I mean, I’ve heard about this stuff and they never recover what’s…”

  “That’s not entirely true, Joan. Agent Marone is very good at chasing money. I’ve worked with him before, and he’s got a great group of forensic accountants. And, as I said, the federally insured amount has already been credited to her account, which is unusual. Most of the time that process takes 90 days, but we have Ruddy to thank for that.”

  “Ruddy?”

  “Marone. That’s Agent Marone. Have you seen her yet?”

  “No—I can’t. The timing is horrendous. I’m on my way out of town on what is probably the single most important business trip of my life. I’m not sure what to do.”

  “I understand. If it’s any consolation, the banking industry is in the middle of a virtual pandemic in the area of geriatric fraud. And the people who took money from your mom are probably better at it than any group I’ve ever seen.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “What I mean is, your mother is very sharp. From the conversations I’ve had with Ruddy, she was circumspect; you can’t imagine how skillful these men and women are at establishing trust. That’s what they do. But she is definitely of sound mind, and didn’t just give her money away. I know that sounds hard to believe when we’re staring at the results, but it’s important for you to keep in mind.”

  “I appreciate what you’re trying to say, Mrs—”

  “Mulcahy. And it’s Ms—but Cynthia, please.”

  “I appreciate it. She’s not senile. OK. She’s alone and vulnerable, and I probably have something to do with that.”

  “Don’t go there, Joan.”

  “But the money’s gone nonetheless. And it’s a lot.”

  “I know. Look: everything that can be done is being done. Are you going to postpone your trip?”

  “I don’t know. I need to think.”

  “OK. If you do go, when will you be back?”

  “I was just going for a few days, but I’ll cut it short. I can actually be back late tonight. It’s a presentation,” she added needlessly.

  “All right. Why don’t you give me your email and cellphone number. You left it for Agent Marone?”

  “Yes. But not my email.”

  “I’m sure he’ll call within the next few hours. I don’t think there’s much you can actually do by being here, Joan, aside from hand-holding—which she definitely needs. The poor woman hasn’t had an easy time. There’s a lot of shame attached to this type of thing when it happens. I wish I could say I hadn’t been through it with other clients.”

  “You’ve seen it before.”

  “More than I wish! Many, many of our customers. And it isn’t just widows and widowers: it’s married couples, folks in their 50s, we’re generally talking about savvy, well-educated people. Baby-boomers! They become mesmerized—the groups preying on them are like—well, they’re just so seductive. Whether or not you postpone your trip is completely up to you, but you should take comfort that the agent in charge of your mother’s case is extremely competent. We’re keeping a close watch on Marjorie’s account. I am, personally. If you’re back tonight or tomorrow morning, I don’t see much difference. It’s your call. It’s an emotional call.”

  “Do I need to get a lawyer?”

  “Absolutely. Why don’t you come see me the minute you touch down—with or without your mom. I’m here all week. The Pico-Robertson branch. That’s Marjorie’s home branch. We can discuss all your options and I can give you a list of people—attorneys—you might want to get in touch with.”

  Joan called her mother and said she’d spoken to the lady at the bank and had also left word with the FBI agent. She was leaving at 3 to give the final presentation of the Memorial, but would be in constant touch. When she broached the possibility of returning on the same night, Marj would hear nothing of it, which only made her feel worse, accentuating the offer’s hollow ring. (After speaking to the Wells Fargo woman she had pretty much settled on staying in Napa until the following afternoon, to get closure on whatever the hell was going on.) She patiently waited for her mom to get a pen and write down Joan’s cell number, asking her to repeat it back. She told her to keep the Nokia turned on as well (the old woman didn’t have the heart to say she’d forgotten her own mobile number—thank God Joan didn’t ask her to recite it—but didn’t think it made any difference, as long as she had it charged and ready), and not to leave the house or answer the door. If anything “seemed ‘funny,’ ” Joan said, “I want you to call 911 immediately, and then call the agent, and then Cora, and then me—in that order. OK, Mom?” Her daughter said it sounded like everyone was doing what they could, and not to worry. It wasn’t that much money in the scheme of things (the fuck it wasn’t)…you have your health, your children, and your house free and clear. These things happen to people of all ages. It’s a pandemic. (She hated parroting the woman from the bank and hated herself for wanting to soften things before they hung up. She had years of experience hanging up on her mother.) She tried to end on a cheerful note by bringing up the hundred-thousand dollars that Cynthia said had been deposited back in her account. They spoke another 5 minutes, but Joan was on autopilot, her head already in Napa.

  AS the Town Car ferried her to Van Nuys she put on her warpaint, strategizing how to surf the cauldron of india ink that abutted and slapped the great and perilous cliffs of Losers Coast.

  She decided not to refer to the baby unless Lew Freiberg brought it up. She would promise an abortion if that was what he required—a stone lie, yet one that might buy her time. All Joan wanted was a fair shake at winning the Mem: if securing the commission, publicly, came down to an order to scrape the womb, she would give notarized assurance. (In her heart she felt he would never tell her to do such a thing but she had to prepare for the worst). The prime imperative, as they say, was for ARK’s design, her design, to be inseminated into every media outlet that mattered, up, down, and sideways. She wanted to win a prestigious foreign prize. She wanted to be profiled, a smoldering headshot in the sidebars of middlebrow magazines that sit in doctors’ offices: Time, Newsweek, what have you. She wanted the whole international elitist enchilada. She wanted to be recognized then move on. Let Lew Freiberg try to pull the Mem plug late-term—but she wouldn’t, she would have that child. And if Joan Herlihy couldn’t have her commission, why then she’d just build a baby, like her brother said, because time was running out, all around.

  What could be a more intelligent design?

  LXII.

  Ray

  THE Dog Whisperer came with his camera crew, and went for walks with Nip.

  The sorcerer worked his calm-assertive magic: the Friar was easier to live with, and his wounds were healing nicely because he no longer reopened them out of compulsive, neurotic behavior. He didn’t cry or throw up anymore when he heard loud noises in the middle of the night. Once in a while he growled during meals but Ray knew what to do. Having established dominance, the old man could now replenish the bowl during a feed without incident.

  Ghulpa was another story. He joked to Señor Millan that his girlfriend (he didn’t say “roommate” anymore) might need a little training on the side. She’d become a handful, even for the cousins. She was nauseous most of the time, and in general discomfort. It wasn’t her fault; being pregnant at that age had to be tough. More than anything, BG hated being confined to bed. The only thing that cheered her was news from the lawyers about the money, the sum of which kept threatening to arrive any day now; Ray knew she’d feel a whole heck of a lot better once she could hold the check in her pretty little hand. He told her that after she dropped the kid (she hated when he used that phrase, and he said it just to get a rise), they’d take a trip somewhere—the Grand Canyon or Yosemite. Big Gulp frowned like an angry god: she would never take her baby camping, nor waste money on “frivolities.” She was a tough nut, and he loved her more each day. She wanted to put money down on a house and leave the rest in the bank,
where it could accumulate interest for the baby’s education. All right. Good deal. BG even wanted to buy insurance so “if something happens,” the child’s future would be secure. Everything was pragmatic, and well thought out. Very Indian. She even spent hours budgeting wardrobe, year by year. She was convinced they were going to have a “boychild.”

  Yet she was plagued by fears. She didn’t want Nip/Tuck around the baby when it came, she didn’t care what that Dog Whisperer said, and had recurring dreams that she took as bad omens. Her cousins brought sweets and fussed over her, but Ghulpa’s disposition remained fretful, gloomy, intransigent. The doctor said it was hormonal.

  A van came and took Ray, Nip, Cesar and his wife and kids, and the camera crew over to that lady Cora’s. Mrs Millan’s name was “Illusion” and the old man had never heard of something like that. He thought it was beautiful.

  As they pulled up to a large, well-manicured home in the modestly upscale neighborhood of Beverlywood, Cora’s son and grandchildren stood on the sidewalk.

  Cesar led the Friar to the lawn, making sure he was calm-submissive before allowing his own kids to pet him—then invited the grandkids to follow suit. They were eager and affectionate. The dog was on his back now, tongue out, tail wagging, paws up: in the pink and generally pleased as punch. Stein ebulliently wielded a flyweight digicam. He shook the Dog Whisperer’s hand, said he was a “big, big fan,” and told him he had “full run of the house.”

  When Cesar asked about Pahrump, Cora, who was the shakiest of the bunch, said he was hiding in the backyard.

  “I think he probably sensed you were coming,” she said. “He’s a bit camera-shy.”

  Cesar said “No worries” and everyone went inside.

  Ray felt a little weak, and stayed behind to catch his breath.

  A minute later, Cesar appeared in the front door.

  “You OK, my man?”

  “Oh fine—don’t worry about me. I’m just an old guy, gettin his bearings. How’s Friar Tuck holding up?”

  “Nip? Hasn’t sunk his teeth in anyone yet,” said Cesar, with that winning, savior’s smile. “He’s doing fine. And take your time, Ray. Come whenever you’re ready. But I don’t want to start the show without you.”

  The old man could hear the rollicking voices of the children from the backyard. Nice neighborhood. Maybe when he got his settlement, he’d move Big and Little Gulp to a place like this. Then he shook his head, because the amount probably wouldn’t be enough to buy a home. It was too far from the cousins, and besides, Ghulpa would never allow him to squander money on a fancy house. No, the Indians had their way, and were talented when it came to saving and getting deals. He’d follow her lead. She was the Mom, and could wear the pants too. Hell, he’d worn the pants long enough. Maybe he’d have himself fitted for a sari! Indians knew how to make money from money, something Ray never seemed to be able to learn. Not that he was proud of it.

  A gaunt-looking woman appeared on the porch next door. She looked about 70 and wore a nicely lived-in, floor-length robe. She peeked around for her paper. He walked toward her, and she didn’t catch his eye until they were 10 feet apart. She seemed startled.

  “It got caught in the bush there,” he said, reaching into the bramble. “Your paperboy must have a helluvan arm.”

  “Oh! Well, thank you. Thank you very much.”

  He saw that it wasn’t a daily, but a neighborhood throwaway, already yellowing.

  “Did you want this, or were you looking for your morning paper?”

  “Are you an agent?”

  He didn’t know what she meant.

  “Are you with the fraud people? My daughter told me not to leave the house.”

  “No, I’m visiting next door.”

  He wondered if she wasn’t all there.

  “Oh! You’re a friend of Cora’s!”

  “Yes I am, and hope to know her better,” he said cordially. “My dog’s having the real visit. They’re making a little TV show.”

  “Dear Pahrump—been through quite a misery. He had a cancer. I was almost going to say, ‘You wouldn’t wish it on a dog,’ but…I thought you were from the bank.”

  “No, though that wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “I’m waiting for them.”

  “I’m waiting for those people myself.”

  “I’ve had lots of visitors lately. I just spoke to my daughter—she was on her way over but she had to go out of town.”

  He nodded. “You take care now. I think they might be ready for my close-up. Or the dog’s, anyway.”

  “Thank you again,” said the old woman as she went back in.

  “You take care.”

  She didn’t take the paper.

  RAY was tuckered out when he got home. He went to see Ghulpa, but she clammed up. The cousins said she was crying all day. Back in the living room, he finally extracted the story.

  Detective Lake had dropped off “a care package” that included a videotape of The Jungle Book with the actor Sabu. (A few weeks ago Staniel and Ray had talked about Rudyard Kipling, and how he was a mutual favorite.) The cousins watched the movie with Ghulpa, which turned out to be a big mistake. In the 1st half hour, a baby boy’s father was killed by the man-eating Bengal, the infant lost in the jungle and raised by wolves. 12 years later, the wild child stumbled into the village and was soon cornered. One of the villagers remembered the lost boy and suggested he was the tiger-abducted son of a woman who still lived there—he was—but the woman said no, that simply couldn’t be. Still, her heart went out and she invited him to stay with her until his “true mother” was found.

  The cousins reported that BG had been quite disturbed by the production, to put it mildly, and had shrieked, even after the tape was ejected. It took Ray another half hour but he managed to get them to confide that Ghulpa had fallen into some kind of trance, interpreting the narrative as a horrible “prefiguration,” a foretelling that the old man wouldn’t live long enough to see the birth of their son—and that the boy himself was doomed to a peripatetic, troubled life. Ray couldn’t help but laugh. The whole thing reminded him of the movie they saw at the Bollyplex.

  He went to the bedroom. For the 1st time, she let him rub her feet. He noticed that Ghulpa had taken her L O V E clock off the wall and put it on the nightstand, for comfort. The face of the “Super Time” formed the heart-shaped O in L O V E—the clock was actually a novelty invite she’d received for an NRI’s wedding (Non-Resident Indian) back in the days when she worked for Pradeep. It was her lucky charm.

  “Why would he bring over such a terrible film?” she asked. “I thought he was a nice man.”

  “Listen, Gulper, I hate to break it to you, but did you know there’s hardly any tigers left in India but in the zoos? They’ve all been poached.”

  “I am not going to speak with you of tigers.”

  “I went on the Google with Aradhana. Or whatever the hell they call it. There was a long article on how they searched the main park—now, I can’t remember where it was, honey, but Aradhana can tell you, it was a big, big park—and they searched it for 2 whole weeks and couldn’t find not a one. Evidently, the Chinese kill em and sell their body parts.”

  Unsuccessful at having the effect he desired, Ray asked if she wanted some fruit or ice cream. BG was inconsolable—she wasn’t even interested in knowing about the Friar and his television debut. Hoping to distract her, the old man offered that everything had gone extremely well, and with the Dog Whisperer’s help (she wrinkled her nose at the appellation) “the 2 mutts” were on their way to becoming fast friends.

  “You cannot whisper to Durga,” was all she said, with that eerie, bobbleheaded solemnity.

  Ray let that one go. He did say that Cesar Millan’s wife was called Illusion, and if they had a girl, it might be a grand name. Ghulpa muttered “Maya,” and Ray wasn’t sure if she was using a Bengali word to rebuff him. Seeing his confusion, she repeated it, Maya, informing him that it was a name, and while it sounded South Amer
ican to Ray’s ears, he thought it pretty as can be. He was surprised she even allowed him to entertain the idea of having a daughter.

  But maybe she meant “ma,” which is what the cousins called each other. Everyone—every girl—was “ma,” even babies.

  LXIII.

  Chester

  MAURIE was transferred to St John’s.

  His mother was dead and his father somewhere in Oregon. The sister, Edith, flew in from Milwaukee, but said she couldn’t stay very long.

  Laxmi bunked at Chester’s. The 1st week after Maurie’s return from the desert (by ambulance), they lived like people who’d lost everything in a storm or a fire. The apartment was untidy. It was as if they had the same terrible flu. She often dissolved into tears, without warning. Chess was in a world of shock but couldn’t share the deeper source of his panic.

  During visiting hours, he held his paralyzed friend’s hand and prayed, observing his own emotions with a new and special kind of agony, both exquisite and excruciating. A part of him hoped Maurie would die; a part was filled with self-loathing for allowing that thought. A part of him prayed with vehemence that Maurie was at least incognizant of what had befallen him; a part, with the nonhuman stinging energy of a hornet or wasp, dared insist the Jew deserved everything he got, but then the cycle of self-loathing started anew—like being tortured on the wheel or the rack—each and every siege causing Chess more psychic damage. (A damage that felt real-time and intensely chemical.) Again and again he thought of turning himself in but what good would that do, if Maurie wasn’t going to recover? What good would it do if Maurie did recover? He willed his friend to “snap out of it.” He willed himself to snap out of it: for the onerous trampoline of reality to bend and warp and spit them up, fluttering the pair down in some other place and time. The doctors refused to give out information because they weren’t family, so Laxmi and Chester had to rely on the sister, who wasn’t the communicative type, and regarded them with thinly veiled scorn and suspicion. None of her reports sounded good. I am a murderer, thought Chess. No: I’ve consigned him—and myself—to a fate worse than death. A double murderer. He wondered if he should make “bedside confession” but immediately rescinded the thought as self-serving and possibly sadistic because of the very real chance that Maurie Levin could understand everything being said all around him, and was, in fact, completely sentient—yeah, probably exactly the case, because Chester’s karma (Maurie’s too, right?) was and had always been so fucked.

 

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