Death Benefits

by Michael A. Kahn

  “No problem. Portia’s almost done, aren’t you?”

  She nodded stiffly, slightly miffed, perhaps at the fact that St. Germain had overlooked her in the introductions.

  “I’ll send her down in a couple minutes, Rachel. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  Back in my office there was a message that Rafael Salazar had returned my call. The number he left was the main number for Customs. I called. He was out. I left my name and phone number with the secretary.

  I got through to two more people on my Stoddard Anderson telephone list—neither any help—and was dialing a third when Portia McKenzie appeared at my doorway. I put the phone down.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Come in,” I said, gesturing toward the sole guest chair in the little office.

  Portia had shoulder-length black hair parted on the side. She had a striking face, almost Eurasian, with a little pug nose. Lots of make-up, but expertly applied. She was wearing a simple white silk dress that highlighted her tan and hugged her high, round breasts. The dress was hemmed at mid-thigh, accentuating dancer’s legs. Her full lips were just this side of swollen. The total effect was somewhere between Vogue model and Penthouse Pet.

  “I understand you have some questions about Stoddard,” she asked.

  “Stoddard?” In my experience, paralegals referred to senior partners, especially dead ones, by last name. “Did you call him that when you were around him?”

  Portia gave me a cool, up-yours gaze. Nancy Winslow was right. I knew the type, and I didn’t like it.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I don’t remember.”

  “Are you the ‘live’ paralegal?”

  “I’m live this month, probably dead the rest of the year.”

  “They call the living clients undeads down here, right?”

  She nodded. Her almond-shaped eyes were a chilly green.

  “Was Mr. Anderson designated executor by any of the undeads?”

  She unfolded a sheet of paper. “April told me you needed that information. I checked yesterday. He isn’t sole executor for anyone. He’s co-executor on four wills.”

  “Whose?”

  She glanced at the sheet of paper. “His wife’s. His daughter’s. A man named M. Salvatore Donalli. And a man named Albert A. Weidemeir.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What about Remy Panzer?”

  She didn’t flinch. “What about him?”

  “Was Mr. Anderson named executor in his will?”

  “I don’t believe so. I had the computer sort through the undead files for those where Stoddard was designated executor. It turned up the four names I mentioned. No one else. If Mr. Panzer had us do his will, he must have designated a different executor.”

  “What’s Remy Panzer doing here today?”

  Again the poker face. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

  “Why not?”

  “One of the rules Abbott & Windsor tells its paralegals their first day is that we’re never allowed to discuss attorney-client matters with anyone who isn’t a member of the firm. Violation of the rule is grounds for termination.”

  “It’s a good rule,” I said. “If I had a gold star, I’d give you one.”

  “Thank you.” She gave me a Miss Manners smile as she stood up. Pausing at the door, she turned to me. “I wasn’t fucking Stoddard,” she said.

  “Ever?”

  “Never.”

  I studied her. “Would you have told me if you had been?”

  She studied me. “Probably not. Who I don’t fuck might be your business. Who I do fuck isn’t. Probably not all that different from your own rules.” She turned to leave. “I’m here if you have any other questions,” she called over her shoulder as she strolled away.

  ***

  Five minutes later Remy Panzer was at my office doorway. He was wearing black slacks and a black turtleneck. I had assumed he would show up eventually, whenever his meeting with Reed St. Germain ended.

  “Good afternoon, Rachel.”

  “What brings you down to the firm, Remy?”

  “What keeps you away so much?”

  I shrugged. “Yours is not the only matter I’m handling.”

  “Likewise, Rachel.”

  We had a Mexican stand-off, in more ways than one.

  “Well, am I looking at my attorney?” he asked.

  “You are not,” I said. I had rehearsed variations of this conversation several times since my meeting this morning with Rafael Salazar. “I view this as more of a salvage operation than a legal matter, Remy. To the extent that your pursuit of Montezuma’s Executor might someday require legal services, you are definitely not looking at your attorney.”

  “Understood. Am I looking at my salvager, then?”

  “I’m still not convinced that someone hasn’t committed a crime here. Nor am I sure about my own culpability. Obviously, none of us knows how this could all play out—assuming, that is, that I do find it. So, here’s how it’s going to have to be, Remy. You are not looking at your attorney and you are not looking at your salvager. But you are looking at someone who’s going to be trying to find Montezuma’s Executor. If I should find it, I understand that you have offered my client, Dorothy Anderson, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the object. My client has been in a coma since before you made that offer. Should I find the Executor before she recovers from that coma, then I will have to do what I think is in her best interest. A quarter of a million dollars would seem to be in her best interest. Accordingly, I do not plan to shop your offer.”

  He nodded. “That is an acceptable position. Very lawyerly. But let’s cut to the chase for a moment. Are you any closer to finding the Executor?”

  “Hard to say. I’m looking at records, talking to people, trying to puzzle it together. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “You do that. Tomorrow is Saturday. I’ll be out of town tomorrow through Sunday evening. If you need to reach me, leave a message with Hans.”

  After Panzer left, I went down to Reed St. Germain’s office to find out why he had met with Panzer. St. Germain was out of the building, according to his secretary.

  “I just met with Mr. Panzer,” I told her. “He said he had a meeting with Mr. St. Germain.”

  “Oh he did,” she answered. “Mr. St. Germain already met with him.”

  “Earlier this afternoon, you mean?” I asked, acting confused.

  “Right. They had a three o’clock appointment.”

  “Do you know what it was about?”

  She shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry, I really don’t. Mr. Panzer called this morning. He said he needed to talk to Mr. St. Germain. Mr. St. Germain hasn’t had me open a new-matter file, yet. If you’d like, I can leave Mr. St. Germain a message. He won’t be back in the office today, but he usually calls in for his messages.”

  “It’s not important,” I said. “Don’t even bother him with it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Don’t worry about it.” I made a mental note to check on Monday, perhaps through Sandy Feldman, to see (a) whether St. Germain did open a new file, and (b) how St. Germain and Portia described their meeting with Panzer on their time sheets.

  As I started to leave I had an idea. “That reminds me,” I said to his secretary. “I just had a little question about one of the trusts the firm is administering. Maybe I don’t even need to bother Mr. St. Germain. Perhaps I could ask one of the paralegals. Do you know who helps him with the trusts?”

  “That would be Portia.”

  “Would she have the files or would they be in the file room?”

  “I think Portia keeps those files in her filing cabinets.”

  “Great. I’ll see if Portia can help me out.”

  My p
hone was ringing when I got back to my office. I hoped it was Rafael Salazar. It was close to five o’clock. I had to get in touch with him before dinner.

  I lifted the receiver and said hello.

  “So what did the cocksucker want?” It wasn’t Rafael.

  “Which one are you referring to?”

  “Only one. I’m using the term descriptively, not merely derogatorily.”

  “‘Descriptively, not merely derogatorily.’ Who is this, Bernie DeWitt or William F. Buckley?”

  “Hey, I’m not some Joe rent-a-cop working at minimum wage and playing pocket pool, for Christ sake. I been to college, Rachel. I got a fucking BA in psychology. Now what did Mr. Pansy want?”

  “How did you know I met with him?”

  “Except for our meeting this morning, I’ve been trailing that slimeball for the last twenty-four hours. I watched him go in your building, I watched him come out two hours later. Even if he spent most of the time trolling the men’s rooms, I assumed he at least dropped by.”

  “Not for long,” I said. “He wanted to know if I’d made a decision.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “That I sort of had. That I should try to find the Executor.”

  “Did you tell him you’d work for him?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? What the fuck’s ‘sort of’ mean?”

  “That as long as it didn’t turn out to be a crime, I’d try to find it for him.”

  “It is a crime, for Christ sake. That’s the whole point. That’s why I’m tailing him. That’s why I’m calling you. I don’t get it. Ralphie told us you were with us on this. He said you signed on. Did you or didn’t you?”

  “I did. Cool it, Bernie. You have your rules, I have mine. I had to make sure he understood I wasn’t acting as his attorney. I’m willing to help you guys, but I draw the line at letting him think I’m his lawyer, letting him think that the stuff he might tell me is covered by the attorney-client privilege. That’s a line I won’t cross.”

  “Okay, Joan of Arc. I hear you. How’d he take it?”

  “He seemed satisfied. He wanted to know if I was making any progress.”

  “And?”

  “Well, not much. I told him I was working on it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. I told him I’d call him. He said he’d be out of town until Sunday night, but that if I needed to leave him a message I could leave it with Hans.”

  “Hans.” He snorted in disgust. “Mr. Hot Buttered Buns.”

  “You know, Bernie, to listen to you talk on the subject one might almost suspect that you harbor some prejudice toward men with homosexual leanings.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t like lesbos neither.”

  “That’s certainly reassuring. Listen, do you know where Rafe is?”

  “Rafe?”

  “Rafael.”

  “Rafe, huh? No. I’m sitting here all alone in my fucking car outside Panzer’s place, where it’s close to a hundred in the shade. I ain’t seen Ralph since lunch.”

  “Well, I’ve been trying to reach him since before noon. You know, if he’s supposed to be my contact, you guys need to work out a better way for me to contact him.”

  “I’ll tell Ferd. He’s gonna relieve me at six. See if we can’t get Ralph a beeper, or maybe one of them portable phones.”

  “That’d be good.”

  “Hey, speaking of relief, you got any dinner plans? I could swing by, pick you up, take you out for something to eat, maybe a few brewskies.”

  “Sorry, Bernie. I already have plans.”

  “Well, maybe some other time, huh?”

  “Maybe some other time.” Like maybe the next geologic era, I thought as I hung up the phone.

  My message light was on. I called the message center.

  “I have two for you, Miss Gold. A Mr. Benjamin Goldberg called. He said he’ll probably be at your sister’s house by ten tonight. And a Mr. Salazar called. He said he’ll meet you for dinner tonight at seven o’clock.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “There’s more. He said he’d be out for the rest of the afternoon, so he’d have to meet you at the restaurant.”

  “Oh, no. Did he leave a number?”

  “No, he didn’t. But he did leave the name of the restaurant.”

  She gave me the name and I wrote it down. Then I called Customs. After twenty rings, I hung up and checked my watch. 5:17 p.m. The federal government closes down at five o’clock on Friday afternoon.

  I called the Abbott & Windsor receptionist out front.

  “Is Portia McKenzie still here?” I asked. “I just tried her line,” I lied, “and she didn’t answer.”

  “No, Portia’s gone for the day.”

  I thanked her and hung up. I checked the office map, figured out where Portia’s office was, and set off to find it. I brought along the printout of ParaLex checks listed on the trusts and estates payee chart.

  As I expected, Portia McKenzie had a small interior office. As with most law firms, partners at Abbott & Windsor get two windows, associates get one, and paralegals get walls. The metal filing cabinet took up most of the side wall of her office. According to the labels on the file drawers, the bottom two rows contained the trust files.

  I tried to pull one of the drawers open. Locked.

  I opened the top drawer of her desk. There were a couple small keys in the pencil tray. Poking my head out of her door, I looked both ways down the hall. No one coming. I ducked back in and started trying keys. The third one fit.

  I pulled open the drawer and started comparing the client numbers on the file jackets with the client numbers on my printout. I located three files, removed them, closed the file cabinet, and left her office.

  Back in my office, I found the checkbooks in each of the files. I flipped through the stubs for the dates and check numbers for ParaLex payments. Portia, God bless her, maintained very neat files. I found each ParaLex invoice and each canceled check to ParaLex. All of the checks had been endorsed by way of a stamp (PARALEX SUPPORT SYSTEMS, INC.—FOR DEPOSIT ONLY) and deposited into Account No. 113456792 at the First State Bank of Creve Coeur. I went to the photocopy machine and made copies of the invoices and the fronts and backs of the canceled checks.

  Then I returned the invoices, canceled checks, and checkbooks to the files and carried the files back to Portia’s office. I put them back in the file cabinet, locked the cabinet, and returned the key to her desk drawer.

  As I walked back down the hall to my office, my pulse gradually returned to normal. I mulled over my next step. Tomorrow was Saturday. The First State Bank of Creve Coeur would likely be open until noon. One phone call before noon ought to be enough.

  ***

  When I returned to my office, I called the hospital to see how Dottie Anderson was doing. I had already been there today, after my meeting with Sal Donalli. Her condition was stable, and her physician was—in DocTalk—“guardedly optimistic.” The hospital switchboard patched me through to a nurse in the intensive care unit. She told me that Dottie’s vital signs were strong, but that there was no indication yet that she was coming out of the coma. I thanked her and hung up.

  I turned to the office window behind my desk. I had a fine view of the Mississippi River and the Arch, which at that very moment framed a tow and the two barges it was pushing upriver. As I watched the tow and its barges pass under the Eads Bridge and out of sight to the north, I softly recited the Jewish healing prayer for Dottie: “Boruch ataw adonai rofay haholeem.”

  “Wellll?!”

  I turned toward the door. It was Melvin Needlebaum.

  “Good God,” I mumbled, gaping.

  Melvin looked down at his outfit and winced. “It would appear,” he said in his nasal staccato, “that the rule of caveat emptor applies
a fortiorari in the context of the telephonic acquisition of clothing. I fear the sales clerk misunderstood my preferences.”

  “You bought that outfit over the telephone?”

  “I did, indeed. I ordered it during a break in the deposition.”

  “Melvin,” I said, fighting the urge to burst into laughter, “you look like you’re about to audition for the lead in ‘Son of Superfly.’”

  He looked puzzled. “Do you really think so, Miss Gold? I discern no resemblance to an insect. To the contrary, these clothes look to me rather like the style more commonly associated with the casual attire of an urban Afro-American.”

  The color theme was purple, from the shoes on up. The purple slacks had gold glitter material blended into the polyester fabric, which made them sparkle. They were cut full at the thigh and tapered tight at the ankle. They were beltless, high-waisted, and had a crease that looked sharp enough to slice cheese. The shirt was a white silky material with a purple pattern that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a repeating design of tiny cans of King Cobra malt liquor. The shirt collar had the wingspan of a California condor.

  “Who did you order this from?”

  “A clothier doing business as Famous May’s.”

  “How did you end up there?”

  “I dialed information. I informed the operator that I believed there was a division of the May Company located in St. Louis. He asked if I meant Famous. Famous what? I asked. He told me he had more than fifteen listings for what must be some local restaurant franchise operation.”

  “What was this place called?”

  “Famous, uh, Famous Saloon? No. Ah yes, the Famous Bar. That’s it.”

  “It’s Famous-Barr, Melvin. B-A-R-R. That’s a department store owned by the May Company.”

  “Ahhh. That certainly clarifies matters. For you see, I insisted that the clothier would likely have the name May in it. He did have a listing for Famous May’s. In north St. Louis, I believe.”

  “Oh, Melvin,” I said, shaking my head.

  “I must say, Miss Gold, they were quite responsive. I advised the clerk that I needed to acquire a casual outfit on an expedited basis for a dinner engagement this evening. I gave her my clothing and shoe sizes and credit card number over the phone, and instructed her to select a matching outfit appropriate for a man of my age. This is what she selected. Although not my taste in clothing, I must say that everything fits quite well. So,” he said, rubbing his hands together, his shoulders hunched forward, “are you getting hungry, Miss Gold?”