Clamour of Crows

by Ray Merritt

  “I have included in your folder a copy of Ben’s Will and his Family Trust. The salient bequests are listed there. He leaves his wife whatever amount is provided for in their prenuptial agreement, with a proviso that she vacate the uptown apartment and remove all her possessions from all of his residences within ninety days—a rather harsh provision. Under the terms of the prenup, Tremaine gets a million dollars for every year they were married. Both she and Ben could independently end the union by simply delivering a written notice declaring the marriage over. If that notice was delivered within the first five years of the union, that was all she would get. If it was delivered after five years, she would get a lump sum of $50 million. If Ben died within the first five years without having delivered a notice of marriage termination, she would get $25 million. They would have been married five years this spring. I understand from Terry that Ben had prepared and signed a marital termination letter, but had held off delivering it. If he had done so, she would have received only $4 million—$1 million for each year. But since he did not deliver the notice she gets $25 million. So one could conclude that Tremaine fared well by the timing of Ben’s death, although I’m sure she will still feel deprived. Twenty-five million would not keep her in the style she has become accustomed to. And if he had lived just a few more months and not delivered the termination letter, she would have received $50 million.

  “Ben then leaves $20 million to Terry and $5 million to Viggie. Additionally, he leaves $10 million to Kati Krkavec, provided she is not pregnant at the time his Will is probated. If she is, then he leaves her nothing, but rather leaves a million in trust for the child, with interest and principal being accumulated and not distributed until the child is thirty years old. He also provides that Kati’s child not be considered his issue for purposes of sharing in the Baum Family Trust.

  “He then directs that all his real estate be sold, except for the downtown maisonette that we are now in. That he leaves to Terry. The proceeds from the sale of the other real estate plus his securities trading accounts are to then be placed in his Family Trust, which already holds, I believe, about 30 percent of his shares in Ozone. The balance of his personally held Ozone shares was recently gifted to his foundation.

  “A few other provisions to note. All of his art, other than anything that Dorothy wants, goes to the foundation. Although he leaves the townhouse to Terry, its contents go to his daughter, Dorothy. Anything she does not want, however, then goes to Terry. His clothes and jewelry go to his son, Leo, except for his Rolex, which he leaves to Viggie. Also he provides that his remains be buried alongside his first wife and his two deceased children, in the family plot, and expresses the wish that Dorothy and Leo make provisions to be buried there as well.”

  Drew volunteered, “Well, that’s not unusual. Parents want their children nearby after they die. My mother wants to be cremated and have her ashes sprinkled around Bloomingdale’s. She believes that’s the only way to ensure that her daughters will visit her twice a week!”

  Even I had to smile.

  “By the way,” I interjected, “the uptown apartment is an eighteen-room duplex at 740 Park Avenue. It’s appraised at about $65 mill. Ben’s Meadow Lane, Southampton, compound is worth more than $50 million—it’s on the ocean—and his Aspen chalet is worth about $10 million. So they could fetch at least $125 million. When you add this place at $12 million, you get $137 million in real estate, along with the $700 million-plus in his brokerage accounts. They’re mostly hedge funds. And about $5 million in personal items—books, cars, and trinkets. Altogether you get a taxable estate of more than $800 million. The feds and the state will take a fair share of the pie, but what’s left is a tidy slice. That’s not to mention the Baum Family Trust, which has holdings in Ozone worth more than a billion. That’s outside the estate. Drew, could you confirm and fine-tune that with Charlotte? Estate tax is not my strong card.”

  “Sure. Is tomorrow OK? I’ll call her tonight when we can talk without interruption.”

  Drew was on board. I liked her style.

  “And Dixie, could you check out what you can on belladonna? And also see if you can figure out that heart symbol in the letter. Enough debriefing for the day. I’m going to make some calls now to Europe before it gets too late. Viggie is waiting outside. I suggest you take your stuff home with you. Enjoy your bedtime reading.

  “Oh, one more thing. I’ve decided to double your salaries for the duration. You will earn them! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Ben and Rasputin had obviously obsessed over their Wills. Both included intimations of death at the hands of others. Both were in some sense mystics.

  Were they both right?

  That answer was our mission.

  Complicated stuff.

  17

  Well, my nose did not grow longer that day.

  I did make those calls. Dorothy didn’t answer, but I connected with Charlotte. In fact, she was breathless when she picked up.

  Seems the despicable Jasper de Vil, Tremaine’s belligerent barrister, had just informed her that he had filed a lawsuit in the New York Supreme Court asking, among other things, that Ben’s current Will be deemed null and void. His argument was that Ben was unduly influenced by Evan and the Firm, that the removal of Tremaine as executrix and the substitution of Evan was the result of that inappropriate and unprofessional influence. Charlotte surmised that they had somehow gotten wind of the significant changes in Ben’s current Will and had concluded that a good offense was their best defense. She promised to fill Drew in with details that night.

  Viggie was back, waiting patiently after having dropped off Drew and Dixie. He was more animated than he had been in the morning, although that was not hard. He talked about Mr. Baum in almost reverential terms, explaining how when he had hit bottom in Brooklyn, Ben had intervened and had given him this job, taught him about life, and made him feel good about himself. He allowed that Ben had sent him to a professional driving school, had gotten him a license to carry a concealed weapon and a membership in a West Side shooting range, as well as a membership in the local gym.

  Seems Ben had made him more than just his chauffeur.

  When he completed his quick recounting of his life story with Ben, Viggie leaned back and handed me a miniature voice recorder. He proudly identified it as the new SONY UX80, which he boasted held two gigabytes of internal storage. Enough to record thirty-six hours of quality audio. He showed me the pitch control and playback features.

  What I did not immediately grasp was that it contained a tape of Drew and Dixie’s car ride home.

  Viggie found nothing wrong with this, explaining that each night he would give the day’s tape to Ben, who would return it after he had listened to it. Viggie would then label his tape and file it at his mother’s home.

  I tried to keep my dismay and disdain under wraps. This was a rank invasion of privacy. It was not, however, illegal, provided Ben was in the car and part of the conversation.

  Corporate executives have been doing it for years. It gets much more dicey when it involves telephones. Both could be criminal offenses and most business titans enjoy their freedom too much to risk it. I’m sure the SEC and the Justice Department would love to get their hands on those. It’s the stuff that indictments are made of.

  Viggie then leaned back and handed me earphones. My principles dissolved like Alka-Seltzer in water. I rationalized that the Baum matter required the absolute loyalty of those in the group and this isolated invasion was justified to ensure that my team was, in fact, on board. Unfortunately, listening might well have constituted illegal eavesdropping. Nevertheless, I pushed the button. After some initial static, their conversation began to flow:

  Viggie, would you please close the divider? Thank you.

  Certainly, Miss Benson.

  This could really be fun, Drew. A lot better than another Power Authority Refunding Bond! They’re so boring, my brain is beginning to fry. This matter is much more interesting. It’s like being
Sutherland in 24, with double overtime pay!

  Dixie, please. It’s more like Murder She Wrote. And I don’t think you appreciate the estate complexities. Our heads will be spinning. At least Tucker seems really nice, not like the head of my department. And Tucker’s real easy on the eyes—he has a kind of craggy-sexy look and a mischievous smile.

  Not dating now?

  I’m dating myself! At least that way I get to pick the restaurant and the movie.

  You’re right about Tucker, though. I talked with Catherine Rennert. I work with her a lot. She was one of Tucker’s contemporaries. You know her, don’t you? She said he’s one of the good guys. Tucker had a great rep at the Firm—super-smart, hard-working, sense of humor. He was a Golden Goy. And I have to agree, he is fantabuloso, but that outfit he had on was pure Nana Nation. Gave me a bit of the skeeves.

  Dixie! If we are going to be in bed together for the next few months—figuratively speaking, that is—you’re going to have to talk hetero.

  If Big Ben is going to talk to us in Tolkienese, I can sprinkle in a little gayspeak. OK! OK! He’s a style-challenged hunk. Is that clear enough for you?

  You know about the accident—losing his wife and kids. That had to be really tough. He seems so positive, though.

  Drew, that was more than three years ago!

  You don’t measure that kind of loss in years.

  You’re right about that. When you have that kind of baggage, you can wear all the polo and rugby shirts you want. And you know, he’s old . . . I think he’s over forty. According to Catherine, he didn’t graduate from college ’til he was twenty-three. Then he spent four years in the marines. Then law school. He made partner in record time—just less than six years. And he’s been away from the Firm about three years. So do the math. He’s around forty!

  You heard what Tucker said about nothing leaving the townhouse.

  That was straight out of Michael Clayton. It was George Clooney’s line. You remember, he was the firm’s fixer. Maybe this is a Firm conspiracy to paper over a problem. Ozone is, after all, the Firm’s biggest client.

  Enough. You’ve got to admit we have a nice crib to work in.

  Yes, but I’m glad we’re working out of the table stable. All that tchotchke stuff in the library is a bit creepy. I didn’t want to tell Friar Tuck that I had no clue about The Hobbit or Alice. Never read them. I did see the Oz movie and I’ve seen all of the Lord of the Rings movies too. Actually I got turned on to the Rings books at Yale. The bookstore’s best seller my sophomore year was a Harvard Lampoon book called Bored with the Rings. It was fall-down funny and it got me into Tolkien. I’ve always wanted to go back and read The Hobbit, but there was never enough time. Actually . . . I must confess, when I was young, I was hooked on Dungeons and Dragons. I was really into D&D—spells, monsters, gods, weapons. Great for honing skills you need to survive in the law business.

  I thought that was for geeks.

  No, to the contrary, no nerds allowed.

  Well, I’m kinda in the same boat even though I was a lit major. Of course, I saw the Oz movies, but not those Rings flicks—too weird for me. And Alice was my mother’s generation. I’m an Agatha Christie addict. When it comes to children’s lit, all I remember is Eloise, and the Seuss and Madeline books! And, of course, my favorite book, Charlotte’s Web, featured one of my all-time favorite characters, Wilbur. My other favorite was a little doll named Edith. She was in the Lonely Doll series. Lovely Edith with her straight blonde hair and gold hoop earrings. A real shiksa. Finally Mr. Bear and Little Bear came to live with them and when Edith has a tantrum, Poppa Bear puts her across his knee. That’s a no-no today so the book was banned. Too bad; it’s a great book.

  I didn’t know you were a spankaholic! Um, what fun!

  DIXIE. You are IMPOSSIBLE.

  I might be, but let’s hope our mission isn’t. Tom Cruise would never forgive us. For me, it was The Little Prince. I loved the mystery of it. And the little guy had great duds. It was the only kid-lit that grabbed me. It didn’t talk down to you and it wasn’t about “good boy meets good girl.” It was about things that worried me and it didn’t delete the bad stuff of life—like death. Saint X was, as they used to say, one cool dude. What a duo we are, Drew! We’re the New Age Bobbsey twins. And we’re going to have to be quick studies. You’ll have to be my Judy. At least I’ll be at home among the fairies.

  Seriously, Dixie, do you think this assignment is good or bad for our careers?

  It depends a lot on what we unearth, I guess. Anyway, it’s only a few months. Our beloved departments—Boring Bonds and Death “R” Us—are not fast tracks to partnership. So it shouldn’t matter, I hope.

  Do you think we should have gotten some guarantees from the Firm?

  Darling! If you want guarantees, buy an alarm clock. Look, we didn’t have a choice. Wall Street is just recovering and they’re understandably cost-conscious. The Firm is revisiting this year’s bonuses for the worker bees. Partners can’t afford to cut back. Word is that the Firm is going to lay off 5 percent of the associates again this year and trim the partner ranks with more early retirements. They’re calling it “smart sizing” and “attritionizing.” Funny how they always come up with catchy words for crappy deeds. I’m afraid Big Law is going the way of phone booths and fedoras, and on top of that, I heard that a couple of partners, including your boss, got Bernied—Madoff with a sizable chunk of their money. You know what Woolly said: “When the animals are hungry, it is a good time to hibernate!”

  Swell, you’re making my day.

  . . . Oh, Viggie, thank you. This is my stop. See ya tomorrow, Dixie.

  I turned the recorder off, took out the cartridge, and returned the recorder to Viggie.

  “Vig, I appreciate your giving me that, but it won’t be necessary to record their conversations in the future. They’re on our side. I trust them. So let’s grant them their privacy.”

  The truth is, I felt bad listening, almost dirty, like a voyeur outside a bedroom window. Technically, I might have just violated federal and state laws. I would destroy the tape.

  No harm, no foul.

  Who was I kidding? Some confidences have to stay shuttered—especially between associates and partners. Big Brother has no place in that mix.

  I did, however, feel like I had passed their muster—even if Dixie didn’t like my cords! And they’d passed muster with me. Quite amusing. Seems associates still live by the rules of Wall Street Woolly. Those cornball word-to-the-wise quips are the oral history of Wall Street associates, handed down to each other and modified to fit the times.

  Lady Drew and her Light Knight would serve me well.

  18

  Dog daze of boredom. That is the major problem for canines and their keepers, since almost all dog sins are caused by it. Slippers get chewed. Rugs get soiled. Papers get shredded.

  I was starting to feel guilty about Nip. I sensed that the thrill of being a city girl was wearing off. Eight hours of daytime half-sleep—one eye on Mrs. Grady, the other in repose—were likely to erode her brain.

  “Viggie, are you free to work for another hour or so?” I asked as we approached my apartment.

  “Sure, Mr. T . . . I don’t have no plans.”

  “Great! Let’s pick up my dog and take her to Central Park. We could go to the Seventy-Second Street entrance and walk around the pond. There’s always a lot of action there!”

  So in less than a half hour, the three of us were paw-loose and fancy free. Well, not quite; Nip had to remain on a leash until nine P.M. Park regulations.

  We walked for about twenty minutes, each silent in his or her own thoughts. I could see that Viggie was drawn to Nip. He was a natural dog whisperer. He knew the moves. He knelt down on one knee and patted Nip’s side, making contact at her eye level. Equal to equal; homo to cano—instant rapport.

  I believe Nip was actually flirting. She was intent on making another convert.

  Viggie nodded to me and smiled when he stood
up. There was gratitude in his gesture. It was embracing and made me comfortable with him. In a few moments, his smile vanished and I was looking at a well-worn thirty-eight-year-old, heavy with a history I wondered if he would ever share with me.

  As we walked, Nip’s attention was drawn to the children. She was ever alert, I suspect, and desperately hoping that JJ and Lilli might bound down the path to embrace her—Lilli leading her brother like Glumdalclitch led Gulliver. My eyes moistened.

  “You OK, Mr. T?” Viggie inquired solicitously.

  “Oh . . . sorry, Vig, I was just thinking about my family. I do that sometimes.”

  “Me too,” he murmured.

  “You had children?”

  “No, but I lost my family like you, all at once, and I get real sad when I think about them.”

  “Would you tell me about it?”

  What followed was an unexpected saga.

  “I was born in Sicily. My mother’s name was Inzerillo. Her borgata—family—was at war with the Corleones and their relatives, the Sandinos. My uncle, he killed one of the Sandino sons. He was a real babbeo, an idiot. Capisci? So the families go to the mattress—war. They killed all my uncles, most of my cousins. Every day a death; every night a funeral. Then one day, they stopped my father’s car and they put my father, my mother, and my little brother in front of a wall. They shot them in the head. Then they hacked off my father’s and brother’s right hands . . . as a message. ‘You pay with your hand for the hand that shot our son.’ That’s what they painted on the wall. After that, my father’s family sent me away to live with my nonno in Pescia, in Tuscany near Collodi. His name was Geppetto Viggiano. He took care of me until I was sent to Mr. Baum. I had to leave or they would have killed me too. The New York Corleone family made a deal with the Italian Corleones that any Inzerillos still alive in Italy could go to New York if they promised never to come back. They called us gli scappati—the escapees. Lo non perdona loro! Never, never will I forgive them!”