The “authentic” came to a screeching halt with the Korean maitre d’.
Tom had said the fish chowder was a must, so Jack had ordered that and fish and chips. He was looking forward to eating something a little more substantial—and warmer—than a sandwich.
He bit a small piece off the butt end of the cigar and fired up the tip with Tom’s lighter. He’d smoked cigarettes for a few years as a teen but the allure of tobacco, especially cigars, had eluded him.
He took a deep draw and let it out slowly. Tom was watching him with an expectant look.
“Well?”
“Tastes like roofing material.”
It didn’t taste that bad, but it didn’t taste good either. What was all the fuss about Cuban cigars?
Tom sputtered. “B-but it’s-it’s a Montecristo!”
“I think you got gypped. It’s an El Shingelo.”
Tom muttered, “De gustibus,” then glared and fumed and puffed while Jack rested his cigar in the ashtray and hoped it would go out.
“Was Dad ever here?” Jack said.
Tom blew blue smoke and looked at him over the rim of his third vodka on the rocks.
“Bermuda? Yeah. I think it was back in your freshman year. Mom had an empty-nest thing going and so Dad brought her here. Don’t you remember?”
Jack shook his head. Something about that hovered on the edge of his memory, just out of reach. He’d done such a bang-up job of leaving his past behind for fifteen years that a lot of it had slipped away.
“Do you know if he liked it?”
Tom shrugged. “Never asked. But hey, what’s not to like?”
Jack nodded. Bermuda might be one of the only areas where he and Tom were in agreement.
He was sure his folks had loved it. How could they not? Even in its cold season, with the deciduous trees standing naked here and there among the palms, it looked like paradise.
On the rare occasions when Jack had thought of Bermuda at all, he’d considered it little more than a newlywed destination—pink-sand beaches and all the rest of the honeymoon hype. But the ride across the Great Sound had shown him a different island.
Tom signaled for another vodka. “Speaking of Dad, have you any idea of the size of his estate?”
Jack sipped his pint of Courage and shook his head. “Not a clue.”
“I got a peek at his finances last summer when I helped him add a codicil to his will.”
Jack pushed away a sudden vision of Tom fixing the terms so that it all went to him.
“What did he change?”
“Don’t worry. You’re still in it.”
Jack had already punched Tom. That remark deserved a head butt. But he sat quietly.
Finally Tom said, “It was after Kate’s death. A third of his estate had been slated for Kate. He’d never conceived of the possibility that she’d predecease him. He changed it so that Kate’s third would be split evenly between Kevin and Lizzie—trusts and all that. He’d already set up an insurance trust to protect the benefits from the inheritance tax.” He shook his head. “The old man knew finances and tax laws. Covered all his bases.”
Dad’s will… talking about it made Jack queasy. He felt ghoulish. He wanted off the subject.
“Well, he was an accountant after all.”
Tom looked Jack in the eye. “How many accountants do you know who’re worth three million bucks?”
Jack sat stiff and silent, stunned. “Three million? Dad? But how?”
“A major reason was Microsoft. He wasn’t in on the IPO, but he got in shortly after. You know how he was about computers—way ahead of the crowd. He saw the future and bought into it. He was also one of the first home-computer day traders.” Tom tapped his fist twice on the table. “Wish to hell he’d clued me in.”
“Would you have listened?”
Tom’s drink arrived. “Probably not. Moot point, anyway. With kids and family and living high, who had spare cash?”
“You must have a retirement account.”
He nodded. “Yeah, but I left that in the care of a reputed whiz kid who royally fucked it up. Shit, if I’d wanted it to crash and burn, I could have done that myself.” Tom stared into his drink. “What’re you going to do with your million?”
A million… the number whacked him across the back of the head like a blackjack. Dad had left him a million bucks.
“I… I’ll have to think about that. How about you?”
“By the time the estate’s settled—and it’ll be a while—I hope to be long gone.” He gave a disgusted grunt. “Otherwise I’ll be a rich jailbird. But even if I hung around I wouldn’t see much of it. With two rasorial ex-wives—the Skanks from Hell are both well practiced at deficit financing—and a third who spends like the Hilton sisters, and three kids with college funds, what do you think?”
Jack had a sudden idea. “Is there any way to split my share between your kids and Kate’s?”
Tom’s drink stopped halfway to his lips. He stared wide eyed and open mouthed.
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. Just made up my mind.”
“No, you’re out of your fucking mind.”
He couldn’t accept the money. Not that it wouldn’t give Gia and him a nice, fat financial cushion, but a man who doesn’t exist can’t inherit money.
“I have my reasons.”
“What? You don’t seem the superstitious type. You think it’s somehow tainted because Dad was murdered?”
That had never occurred to Jack, but he decided to run with it.
“Yeah. It’s blood money. I don’t want it.”
Tom shook his head. “Well, as much as I’d like to see the kids get an extra half a mil, it can’t be done.”
“Why not? You’re the executor, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but I won’t be around. And an executor can’t change the terms of the will.”
“You could hang around long enough to find a way.”
“But it’s not necessary. Once you claim the money you can divvy it up any way you please.”
That was just the point—he couldn’t claim the money.
Another idea: “Okay, have me declared dead.”
“What?”
“Look, I disappeared more than seven years ago—twice that. Isn’t that enough to have me declared dead?”
“But you’re not.”
“I am—at least as far as officialdom is concerned.”
There—he’d said it. Hadn’t wanted to, but there was no other way. He didn’t want his inheritance moldering in some account when the other people in Dad’s will could use it.
Tom grinned and slapped the tabletop. “Knew it! I knew it!”
“Knew what?”
“You’re running around under a false identity. That’s why you couldn’t claim Dad’s body. And—of course! You can’t claim the inheritance for the same reason.” He leaned forward. “What’s the story? Who are you hiding from?”
“You know all you need to know, Tom. Back to the subject at hand: Can you have me declared dead?”
“But everybody at the wake and the funeral… they know you’re alive.”
“Yeah, but do they have to know I’ve been declared dead? Nobody knows how much they were slated to inherit in the first place. If you don’t tell and I don’t complain, who’s going to be the wiser?”
Tom leaned back. “I don’t know. It might be possible. I’ll hang around long enough to look into it.”
“Do that. And no funny stuff.”
Tom looked offended. “You think I’d gyp Kate’s kids?”
“After what you’ve told me? What do you think?”
“I’d never—”
“Good. Because if I ever find out you’ve shorted those kids, I’ll hunt you down and chop off your right hand.”
Tom started to laugh but it died aborning as he looked in Jack’s eyes.
“You—you’re kidding, right?”
Their food arrived then. Jack sniffed his fish a
nd chips—fresh from the fryer, all hot, crisp, and greasy.
“Let’s eat.”
* * *
6
When the check arrived, Tom said, “You mind getting this? I mean, I could charge it, but I don’t want to leave a trail to Bermuda and back.”
Jack reached for his wallet. “Good thinking.”
Jack didn’t mind. John Tyleski didn’t exist.
“How much cash did you bring?”
“I’ve got plastic.”
“You do? How?”
Why was he acting so surprised? Tom knew he’d reserved that hotel room for him. Can’t do that without a credit card.
“There are ways.”
“You and I need to talk about rebirth real soon. But for now we have to find us a place to spend the night.”
“Why not the boat?”
“Too far. Doesn’t make sense to go all the way back to Somerset tonight, then come all the way back in the morning. Besides, lights and activity on the boat might draw attention. Better to stay here.”
He was probably right.
“I saw a big pink hotel as we got off the ferry.”
Tom made a face. “The Princess? Uh-uh. No can do.”
“Why not?”
“That’s where I honeymooned with the first Skank from Hell. No thanks.” He shook his head. “I stayed at Elbow Beach my last few times here.” Another head shake. “We’ll find some other place. You’ll have to cover the rooms.”
“Figured that. And everything else, I guess.”
“Not at all. We’ll settle up tomorrow as soon as I withdraw my money.”
“After which we head home, right? As in right away.”
Tom gave a thumbs-up. “You got it. I want to get that money back and stashed in the States ASAP. And then you can show me how to disappear.”
* * *
WEDNESDAY
1
Tom glanced at his watch as he paced the marble floor of the Bermuda Bank and Trust Limited, waiting for Hugh Dawkes. Nine thirty. He wanted to get back to the Sahbon.
He wore a wrinkled shirt and slacks—the best clothes he’d brought along—and had his backpack slung over his shoulder. The backpack probably wasn’t a good touch, but its contents were too precious to leave in the truck.
The BB&T occupied a pink stucco building on the uphill side of Reid Street in Hamilton. The idea of a pink bank had put Tom off at first, but then this was Bermuda where it was no strange thing to see businessmen—bankers included—dressed for work in a jacket, tie, short pants, and knee socks.
Dawkes appeared, a slim, silver-haired gent in dark blue jacket and matching Bermuda shorts and knee socks. Tom had made a point of dealing with the same man on every visit he’d made to BB&T. He’d also made a point of calling the Gosling Brothers’ store on Front Street and having them send Dawkes a bottle of their 150-proof rum every Christmas. Never knew when you were going to need a favor.
As they shook hands and exchanged greetings, he sensed tension in Dawkes. Maybe he was having a bad day.
Tom didn’t have much time so he got right to the point.
“I’ll be relocating to the West Coast soon, so I’m afraid I’ll have to close out my account.”
Now Dawkes looked even more troubled. “I’m sorry to tell you this, sir, but at this time that will not be possible.”
Tom’s stomach did a flip. “Why not?”
“Your government has been in touch with the hank and… I…”
With his knees going soft under him, Tom reached for a chair.
“May I sit down?”
“Of course, sir.”
“What do you mean ‘my government’?”
“I’m not sure, sir. Some agency approached the bank. The president, Mr. Hickson, dealt with them. He has not seen fit to inform me of the details.”
Dawkes pursed his lips and sniffed, obviously slighted.
Tom didn’t give a shit about this twit’s wounded feelings. The feds! The feds had been here!
“What’s the bottom line here, Mr. Dawkes?”
Dawkes looked embarrassed. “Your account has been frozen, sir.”
Tom leaned back and closed his eyes. This was scary. No, it was beyond scary—this was fucking terrifying. How did they find out about it? How had they connected him to BB&T?
Chiram… the Sahbon’s former owner, Chiram Abijah. Had to be him. Probably made a deal and gave up Tom.
But an even more terrifying question roiled his gut: What else did they know?
The savings account itself wasn’t important. He’d deposited a thousand in it years ago simply to establish himself as a customer. He’d wanted to use a phony name, but the bank required a passport as ID for foreign depositors, and the only passport he’d had was the real thing.
Although he needed every penny he could get his hands on, he could let the thousand go. His real stash was in the back.
At least he hoped it was. Tom was almost afraid to ask. He put on a brave face, looked Dawkes in the eye, and…
“This is most puzzling and disconcerting, Mr. Dawkes. I’ll straighten it out immediately when I get home. But at this time I’d like to visit my safety-deposit box.”
Dawkes looked away and Tom’s heart almost stopped.
Oh, no. Oh, shit, don’t tell me—
“I’m afraid that’s frozen too, sir.”
Jesus God. Half a million bucks! His fuck-you money. He had to get to it.
He dug in his pants pocket and found the box key.
“Just a quick visit? For old time’s sake?”
Dawkes gave a sad shake of his head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t do that, sir.”
He held up the key. “Not even as a personal favor?”
He glanced at Tom, then looked away again. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Tom wanted to throttle him. You ungrateful shit. After all that rum I sent you…
“But there is something I can do for you, sir…”
What? What?
“… and that’s to tell you to turn around and walk away from here and don’t come back.”
Dawkes’s furtive look and lowered voice cut off the stream of choice epithets that leaped to Tom’s lips.
“What are you telling me?”
“Simply that Mr. Hickson has instructed us to report your presence to him immediately should you show up. I am the only one here at BB and T who knows you by sight, and I will, shall we say, neglect to mention your visit. But I suggest we cut this meeting short before anyone becomes curious as to your identity.”
Tom bolted from the chair and extended his hand. “Thank you, Dawkes. You’re a prince.”
A quick shake and he was on his way.
Shit, shit, SHIT! Now he was fucked—royally fucked. He saw no options. What could he do?
And then he thought of something. A long shot. A very long shot.
But he couldn’t do it alone. He’d need Jack’s help.
* * *
2
Shock blasted through Jack like an icy wave when Tom told him. Not from the news that his account was frozen, but…
“The feds know you’re here?”
That meant the feds would also know that Jack was here. A crawly sensation settled on the back of his neck. They could be under surveillance right now.
They stood on Reid Street, a pair of statues among bustling shoppers and workers. Fleets of motorbikes buzzed by on the street, their dinky engines sounding like a swarm of angry hornets.
Tom shook his head. “No. The feds have no idea. Otherwise they’d have been waiting for me. Good thing we came in through the back door.”
But obviously they’ve learned about the account and think I might try to get to it.
F Paul Wilson - Secret History 03 Page 17