By the time the cardiac team arrived, no more than fifty seconds later, she’d already opened the pyjama jacket and was pumping the chest with her palms. Her efforts failed and as the cardiac team burst into the room she stepped well back. The gel packs were quickly opened, applied to the chest and to the terminals of the electrodes. They were placed on the chest, the doctor shouted ‘Clear’, and the tiny body suddenly leapt in the bed. All eyes turned to the monitor. It still showed a straight line. They tried the procedure again and again for fifteen minutes. At exactly twenty-two minutes past midnight Dr William Deegan declared Benjamin Wise officially dead.
Chapter 17
THE FUNERAL WAS WELL ATTENDED at Mount Sinai, a Jewish cemetery on Dublin’s southside. Sadly, there was only one man who cried at the funeral. Mark Browne was consoled by his bride of only ten days. Benjamin Wise’s only son Manny was there also, but there were no tears from him. When the burial rite was over, Mark walked up to Manny Wise and extended his hand. Manny’s hand was like a dead fish.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Mark said - though really things should have been the other way around.
‘Yeh! Eh sure - Mark isn’t?’
‘Yes, Mark Browne. I’m the Managing Director of your father’s - well, I suppose your company now.’
They began to stroll towards the cars.
‘The furniture business? Yeh - that’s right,’ Manny said. ‘What d’yeh reckon it’s worth, Mark?‘
The question surprised Mark. ‘In what sense?’
‘In the sense of what would I get if I sold it?’
‘It’s not that kind of factory, Mr Wise. Your father’s factory has very few assets. Its real worth is in what it can produce. And it can produce reasonable quality furniture at the right price for a long time to come. You won’t be dissatisfied with the books. Why don’t you come down and have a look? I’ll go through them with you,’ Mark offered.
‘Nah! I’m not in the furniture business, Mark. I’ll probably just close the place and sell off the property. Unless, of course, you want to buy it?’
‘I wouldn’t have that kind of money, Mr Wise.’ Mark was now worried about the futures of the forty-two men who were employed by Senga Furniture.
The two were joined by a much older man. Mark thought he recognised the face, but couldn’t place him. Manny Wise had no idea who the man was at all. The man took Manny’s hand, offered his condolences and introduced himself. ‘My name is David Jacobson, Mr Wise. I was your father’s solicitor.’
Mark remembered him. He extended his hand. ‘Hello, Mr Jacobson.’
‘Hello, Mark, good to see you again, son.’
The elderly man turned his attention once again to Manny Wise. ‘It’s my understanding that you are resident overseas, Mr Wise, so perhaps expediency will be appropriate in the matter of your father’s will,’ he suggested.
‘A will?’ Manny was perplexed.
‘Oh yes. Mr Wise senior left a will and, as was his way, everything is correct and proper. May I suggest a reading early tomorrow, say ten-thirty in the morning? Would that suit both of you?’ He looked from one man to the other.
‘Both of us?’ Mark enquired.
‘Yes, Mr Browne. Mr Wise left explicit instructions that you were to be there for the reading.’
‘And what about me?’ Manny asked. ‘Did he leave any instructions about me?’
‘Oh, I think he knew for sure that you would be there.’ Mr Jacobson delivered this jab without so much as blinking.
The funeral was not like the traditional Irish funerals that the Brownes were familiar with. They stood around, waiting to see which pub the crowd would be adjourning to, only to see them scatter away in their cars.
‘That’s no way to pay your respects!’ Dermot stated.
‘They have different ways,’ Sean McHugh explained, the breath coming from his mouth like fog.
‘Well, fuck the different ways, let’s send him off our way,’ Dermot insisted.
There were nods of agreement all round and the Browne family along with the entire staff of Senga Furnishings made their way into the city centre to Foley’s pub and betook themselves to alcohol. As the afternoon progressed, there were many tales told of moments of kindness by Mr Wise. Sean McHugh had an audience for a full thirty minutes as he told of the heartbreak young Manny had caused his father over the years. This was met with a lot of ‘tut, tuts,’ and comments like, ‘Little brat’ from the older members of staff and ’Smarmy bollix’ from the younger ones. As more drink was taken the atmosphere lightened and the ballads began. During the fourth verse of Sean McHugh’s rendition of ‘James Connolly’, Mark slipped out of Foley’s. He tucked his scarf down, turned his collar up and stuffing his hands into his pockets he began to walk around the area of his birth. He soon found himself standing outside the turf depot. Across from it was the tiny terraced cottage in which the kindly old man had spent his years. For a moment Mark saw Mr Wise framed in the doorway of the cottage. He could see the old man wearing six cardigans and in his outstretched palm the two-shilling piece reward he had given to the young Mark every Saturday for lighting his fire.
‘Jesus Christ, Mr Wise, where’s the cocoa now that I need it?’ Mark said aloud and began to cry.
He sat on the small turf depot wall for over an hour, but now reliving the happy thoughts and memories he had of the man who in so many ways had replaced his father. He then made his way back to Foley’s where he proceeded to get absolutely blind drunk. He arrived home to his ‘new’ flat on the North Circular Road in the early hours of the morning. He went to bed fully dressed and as his young wife cradled his head like a little baby, Mark sobbed himself to sleep.
He awoke to the crackle of rashers frying in the kitchen. The aroma was beautiful and he felt good until he moved. The pain in the back of his head and right down his spine was excruciating. He groaned.
‘You’re up then?’ Betty asked from the doorway of the bedroom.
‘What hit me?’ Mark asked weakly.
‘Life!’ Betty said simply.
‘Is it late?’
‘Yeh, I suppose it is, for you. It’s ten minutes to ten - but that’s all right because last night in Foley’s pub you gave all the staff the rest of the week off, on full pay!’
‘Did I?’
‘Yep!’ Betty smiled at him.
Mark lay back down again gingerly, and put his hands over his eyes. ‘Well, they deserve it. They’re going to have a lot more than the rest of the week off if Manny Wise has his way.’ Suddenly he sat bolt upright.
‘Manny Wise!’ he said aloud. ‘Jesus Christ, what time did yeh say it was?’
‘Ten to ten,’ Betty answered.
Mark jumped from the bed, forgetting the pain. ‘The will! Christ! Jacobson’s reading the will this morning at half-ten. Where’s Jacobson’s office?’
‘Will? Office? Slow down, Mark, what are yeh talkin’ about?’ Betty was confused.
Mark closed his eyes for a moment and gathered his thoughts. ‘Mr Wise left a will, apparently, with his old solicitor, David Jacobson. It’s being read this morning at half-ten and Mr Wise left instructions that I was to be there for the reading. Christ, where’s me brown suit?’
Betty went to the wardrobe, took out a brown suit, bent down, picked out a pair of brown suede shoes, then walked to a tallboy and extracted a clean white shirt and a tie.
‘You’re going nowhere, Mark Browne, until you’ve had a cup of tea. Now, you get dressed and I’ll put the kettle on. In the meantime I’ll go through the ’phone book to get an address for this David Jacobson fella.‘
By now Mark was hopping around the room on one leg trying to get the other one into the leg of his trousers.
Manny Wise was already sitting in the waiting room of David Jacobson’s office when Mark arrived.
‘Good momin’, Mr Wise,‘ Mark said.
‘Yeh! Good momin’, son,‘ Manny Wise answered.
The super-efficient Thelma, Mr Jacobson�
�s secretary, looked Mark up and down. ‘Mr Browne, I presume?’
‘Eh ... yes. That’s right. Mark Browne.’
The woman picked up the telephone receiver, pressed a button and announced, ‘They are both here now, Mr Jacobson.’
She stood up. ‘Follow me, please:’
David Jacobson obviously had a big firm. The corridor was long with about six offices off it. The name on every office door except one ended in Jacobson. The odd one out was a Maxwell. Maxwell must have married Jacobson’s daughter, Mark thought to himself, as he strolled behind Manny Wise down the long corridor. The two men were led into a large meeting room into which David Jacobson entered simultaneously from another door.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. Please sit down,’ Jacobson invited.
When the three were seated, David Jacobson unbound a file and extracted a yellow sealed envelope. He laid it face down on the table, then passed it to the two men and asked them to witness that the seal had not been broken. Mark nodded and slid it to Manny Wise.
‘Yeh, yeh, yeh! Get on with it, mate, I’ve got a plane to catch,’ Manny agreed, and he pushed the envelope back to Mr Jacobson.
The solicitor opened the envelope, extracted a single sheet of paper and read the following. ‘I Benjamin Wise being of sound mind residing in Number 2 Cornell Cottages in Dublin’s city centre make this as my final Will and Testament.
‘I presume that there are three or at least two sitting in audience as my solicitor David Jacobson reads this Will. Sean McHugh may not be there but this is no matter for I know my words will be communicated to him faithfully by David Jacobson. Mark Browne I know is sitting there for I left explicit instructions that he should be and he has never failed to carry out my instructions. For this I thank you, Mark, and I thank you also for the care, kindness and warmth you have always shown to me. I want you to know too that it has been your courage, honesty and tenacity that has kept me alive as long as I have stayed alive. I hope you miss me now, for I would surely be missing you were these roles reversed, but I ask you to think of the happy times we had together and know this - that they were the greatest moments of my life. I thank you, Mark.
‘Manny, you little shit! I want you to listen closely to my will.’ Mr Jacobson did not raise his eyes from the paper as he read that piece.
‘So here we go. To my first employee and longest friend on this earth, Sean McHugh, I leave my home, unencumbered by mortgage or debt. It is not fit to be lived in, but I hope he will sell it and that the proceeds of this sale will make his closing years as comfortable as his friendship made mine.
‘My only other assets are the premises and business of Senga Soft Furnishings, formerly Wise & Co., and the retail shop premises in Capel Street known as Wise & Co. Bespoke Furniture. My interest in these, the Property and Deeds of both premises, and indeed the business, though I am embarrassed to say this for the business was never mine but belonged to the man who made it, all of this I leave to Mark Browne. My only request of him being that he has as much thought for the staff within these businesses as I have taught him to have.
‘To my son, Manny, I leave all he ever wanted - his own ego. I hope the two of you are very happy together.
‘Signed Benjamin Wise.’
Mr Jacobson folded the paper slowly and looked up. ‘So, there you have it, gentlemen,’ he announced.
Mark did not know what to say or do, so he just sat still at the giant conference table, staring at his folded hands in front of him. Suddenly, Manny Wise burst into laughter. Mark jumped with fright and Mr Jacobson frowned.
‘You find this funny, Mr Wise?’ Jacobson asked. It obviously was not proper to laugh in a solicitor’s office at the reading of a will.
Manny Wise took a cigarette from a pack, lit it, exhaled, and drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Yes, I do find it funny, Mr Jacobson. Tell me, when was this will made?’
‘Two years ago in 1973,’ Mr Jacobson answered quite solemnly.
Again Manny Wise burst into laughter. ‘Then it’s not worth shit, Mr Jacobson.’
Mr Jacobson became indignant. ‘How dare you, Mr Wise. I assure you this will is perfectly legal and was drawn up with the greatest of integrity by myself and witnessed by my secretary, Thelma, isn’t that so?’ He turned to Thelma who nodded her assent, at the same time giving Mr Wise the evil eye.
Manny stood up. ‘My father cannot leave something to someone that he does not own,’ Manny said these words very carefully.
Jacobson was now confused. ‘Can you be more specific, Mr Wise? What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that in London I have a document dated prior to this will in which my father signed everything over to me, for love and natural affection.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Believe it, Mr Jacobson, believe it!’
‘I refuse to believe it. Mr Wise made me well aware of his relationship with you. He would hold no truck with your involvement in his business affairs.’
‘I have the document, Mr Jacobson.’ Manny now virtually sneered.
David Jacobson sat quietly for a couple of moments gathering himself. The outburst was uncommon for him and he now returned to his calm, cool solicitor mode.
‘All right, Mr Wise, I will give you until Friday at three o’clock to produce the said document here in this office. If we can verify your father’s signature on such a document then I will suggest a number of law firms you should go to to contest this will. However if by three o‘clock on Friday this supposed document is not produced, then I shall execute the will post haste.’
Manny Wise began to laugh again and made his way to the door.
Jacobson called after him. ‘Are you clear on that, Mr Wise?’
Manny placed his trilby hat on his head and as he opened the conference room door looked back over his shoulder. ‘See you Friday, Mr Jacobson.’
Mark stared at the closed door for some moments, then turning to Mr Jacobson he asked, ‘So, what do we do now?’
Jacobson gathered his documents and began to return them to the file. ‘I knew Benjamin Wise for many many years. There is no possibility whatsoever that he willingly would have signed a document giving anything, let alone his entire estate, to his son Manny.’ He paused for a moment, then continued. ‘However, that does not rule out the possibility that Manny has some kind of document that can contest this will.’
The solicitor’s face softened and he smiled at Mark. ‘Listen, son, we’ll know by three next Friday. In the meantime all we can do is wait.’
Chapter 18
LONDON
THE AER LINGUS FLIGHT EI 111 had touched down in Heathrow airport at exactly 1.05pm. Precisely on time. Throughout the flight and the one and a quarter hour journey by taxi from Heathrow to his apartment on the Edgeware Road, Manny had been very relaxed and confident. When he arrived into the hallway outside his apartment, young Joe Fitzgerald was standing waiting for him.
‘What are you doin’ here?’ Manny asked.
‘Waitin’ for you.’
‘How did you know I’d be home?’
‘I didn’t, I just knew you’d come home some time!‘ Joe Fitzgerald spoke softly.
Manny inserted his key into the lock and turned it, the door opened and Joe followed Manny in.
‘So, how long are you there, waiting?’ Manny asked the junkie as he removed his coat.
‘Since last night - I slept sittin’ outside the door.’
‘Outside my door - all night! You fuckin’ asshole,’ Manny laughed.
‘I need a favour, Manny.’
‘Do you now, Joe? And what kind of favour would that be, Joe?’
There was a growing sense inside Manny that the tide was turning against him and he felt agitated. He certainly wasn’t in any humour for the Joe Fitzgeralds of this world.
‘I need a fix, Manny - bad,’ Joe pleaded.
‘That’s no problem, Joe. Give me the few bob you owe me and the price of the fix and Bob’s your uncle!’ Manny spok
e very flat and matter-of-factly.
‘I don’t have any money,’ the young man mumbled.
‘What? Speak up, Joe! What was that? You don’t have any money?’ Manny’s tone was mocking, and the young man just shook his head. ‘Well, there’s a Russian phrase for that, Joe. Toughski shitski. Now, fuck off, I’m busy.’ Manny turned his back on the young man to pour himself a drink.
‘Give me a fix, Manny!’ Joe Fitzgerald screamed as he lunged at Manny Wise.
His decimated form used as much impact as it could on Manny’s slumped back. Manny toppled forward, his head going through the glass door of the drinks cabinet, sending bottles of booze and broken glass flying in all directions. But Joe Fitzgerald was undernourished, weak, and disorientated for the want of a heroin fix. He was no match for Manny Wise although the ferocity of his attack had initially caught Manny by surprise. The clash lasted just seconds. After regaining his footing, Manny landed his very first blow, a punch flat to the nose, pushing Joe’s cartilage back into his face. The young man dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Even though Joe Fitzgerald was unconscious from the very first blow, Manny continued to kick him for a further thirty seconds or so. Manny was now crazed and his breath was coming in grunts. He walked away from Joe’s body and stumbled over a footstool. As he got up from the floor he took with him a bottle of Scotch that had been lying on its side close to his hand. Then he slumped into an armchair and uncorked the bottle.
It was at this precise moment that Derek (Wilco) Wilson, Sergeant Major (retired), rang the police from his apartment below Manny Wise’s. In his early eighties and even though still a little scared from his last confrontation with his upstairs neighbour, Sergeant Major Wilson had had enough.
Manny sat pale and shaking, and he gulped hungrily from the bottle. The warm golden liquid burned his throat. He rose from the armchair. Carrying the Scotch he went to the bathroom, and checked the damage in the mirror. There was a three-inch-long gash from his hairline down to the middle of his forehead. It need a stitch. He put the Scotch bottle down on the toilet cistern, deciding to wash the streaks of blood that covered his face. But suddenly changing his mind he decided he would shower later.
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