by Jim Stevens
“It has to do with the case.”
“I’ve heard a lot of excuses, Mister Sherlock.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re not meeting her on some street corner, are you?”
“No.”
“Well, I guess that’s some kind of positive.”
“I’ll need four-hundred bucks, plus tip.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Hey, nothing’s cheap.”
“Promise me you’ll use protection.”
“I promise.”
11
Bored of trade
Tiffany is waiting outside Conway Waddy’s door as I arrive.
“Did you bring the four hundred?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The ATM I went to was out of money,” Tiffany says. “Can you believe that?”
“You go to the bank while I do this.”
“And miss the reading of the will? You have got to be kidding, Mister Sherlock. Daddy said it is going to be a blast.”
“Tiffany…”
“Don’t worry; I’ll have the money by this afternoon when you go see your ho.”
We walk inside and go directly into the conference room where all the players are present and accounted for. Brewster and Doris have taken the two seats at the head of the rectangular table, as if to say, we’re first in line. Clayton, who said he didn’t care if he got a dime, sits on the opposite side of the table, briefcase in front of him, Blackberry in his ear, spouting instructions to an unseen subordinate. Christina sits next to where she figures Conway will read the will, since there are stacks of paper, being lined up by a paralegal, three feet across the desk. I’m surprised wallets are not sitting open on the table waiting to be filled.
There is enough tension in the room to power a generator. The principals fidget, their eyes pretending to read, or they stare at their fingernails. No one is speaking. No eye contact made. Each must be imagining they are the only one at the table. I try to picture this family living in the same house together; what a sitcom that would be.
Norbert stands in the far corner of the room next to the coffee service, sampling the Danish. He is the only one who acknowledges my presence with a wave and a burp.
Conway Waddy enters the room, reading glasses precariously balanced at the end of his nose. He carries a plastic file folder with numerous colored tabs sticking out of the side. Before sitting he hikes his pants, adjusts his suspenders, and unbuttons his suit coat. “Welcome,” he says. “I’m glad you all could be here.”
I can’t believe anyone in this crowd cares about pleasantries at this point; it’s more like shut up and show me the money.
Conway opens the folder to the first tab and begins to read. “Alvin J. Augustus of Kenilworth Illinois… being of sound mind, sound body…” and blah, blah, blah boilerplate of what everyone in the room knows and could care less about.
“Can we cut through the legal eagle crap?” Clayton asks during a slight pause in Conway’s rendition.
“No,” Christina says. “He has to put it all on the record for it to be legally binding.”
“It’s a reading of the will, my dear,” Doris drips in sarcasm, “not a Supreme Court decision on gay marriage.”
“Come on, get on with it,” Brewster says. “I want to catch post time at Arlington.”
The bickering Bickersons.
“By the way, dear,” Doris asks Christina calmly, “that girlfriend of yours, are you her bitch or is she yours?”
“It takes one to know one, Step-mommy.”
“Can we eliminate the comments, please?” Conway intervenes.
“She started it,” Christina says.
“Did not,” Doris snaps back.
Tiffany pokes me. “I love this stuff.”
This is just like my house on a kid weekend.
“You should be thankful she’s gay, Doris,” Clayton says. “If she was married with kids, that’s more people to have their hands in the pot.”
“May I continue?” Conway asks.
“Yes, hurry up,” Brewster answers.
Norbert looks over to me and shakes his head.
“The assets are as follows: home in Kenilworth, appraised at a current value of four-point-two million.”
“That’s all?” Clayton says it, but anyone would have asked this question.
“Current housing values have decreased substantially across the area,” Conway explains, then quickly continues. “The current outstanding mortgage is four-point-three million at seven-point-three percent.”
Conway couldn’t have stopped the conversation in the room any quicker than if he farted. The family is stunned.
Doris recovers first. “We’ve been in the house more than ten years. We bought it for less than a million. I remember when the mortgage was paid off.”
“The first mortgage was retired,” Conway says, “but since numerous equity loans have been taken out on the property.”
“I didn’t see any of that money,” Doris says in defense.
“Then where the hell is it?” Clayton asks.
Conway shrugs his big shoulders.
“You’re telling us the house is worth less than the mortgage?” Brewster asks.
“Underwater?” Clayton adds.
“Yes.” Conway points to the next section on the page and reads. “Augustus Enterprises Incorporated, which is the holding company, is currently valued at sixteen-point-nine million dollars...”
There is a collective sigh in the room.
“…with liabilities to the corporation totaling sixteen-point-three million dollars.”
All breathing in the room stops. Doris’ mouth drops open despite her Botox-frozen jaw. Clayton fumbles his Blackberry. Brewster scratches his privates. Christina’s hand covers her mouth as if she had witnessed the first killing in a cheap horror film.
“There’s more.” Conway continues, attempting to be as lawyerly as possible. “Two seats on the Board of Trade have existing contracts to be sold, all stocks, bonds and securities are in the process of being liquidated and placed in receivership for outstanding debt.”
Although each Augustus at the table is only half-related to one another, they have taken on exactly the same look, resembling a family of mimes with pure pasty-white skin, sunken black eyes, and drooping smiles.
“There are other odds and ends that I will not take the time to list,” Conway says to fill the air with words until some of the shock wears off. “Finally, there is a life insurance policy in the amount of twelve-million dollars.”
For the second time in less than five minutes all activity stops faster than in a game of freeze tag.
“To be divided between my current wife, three children, with a half share to Horace Heffelfinger and Millie Maddocks.”
I make a mental note of the last two names.
“But before any disbursements are made,” he pauses, “a rider to the policy demands,” he reads carefully, “in the event of an unnatural death, all listed recipients of the proceeds must be cleared of any involvement of wrongdoing before their portion of the settlement is paid out.”
Brewster speaks for the group. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“Your father added the rider,” Conway says.
“Yep,” Tiffany says and gives a slight wave to the assembled.
“You sure?” Brewster chokes out.
“It was signed and notarized in the Richmond Insurance offices,” Conway explains.
“He never mentioned any rider to me,” Brewster says.
“And there was no rider on the will I read,” Doris’ voice rises, “a month ago.”
“What prompted you to do that?” I am not supposed to ask questions here, but I do.
Doris turns around in her chair to face me. “None of your damn business.”
Conway takes back the floor. “Rider was dated and signed two weeks ago Thursday.”
“Is it legal?” Clayton asks.
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br /> “I was the witness,” Conway confesses.
I laugh. Conway was the witness to the signing of a document he wasn’t allowed to read. That Alvin was a real character.
The disbelief continues at the table. No one really knows what to say.
Conway explains, “Alvin recently suffered major trading losses with the swings in commodity prices over the past months.”
“No way,” Clayton says. “Its been a sucker’s market for weeks.”
“He used to make millions when the markets took big swings,” Doris says. “He’d get a hard-on on days like those.”
“A little too much information,” Tiffany says to me.
“I bet it was your fault.” Clayton points her finger at Doris.
“Me?”
“You made Dad crazy, with your shopping and facelifts and all the crap you put him through.”
“I made him nuts?” Doris screams back at her son. “Look at you.”
“Me?”
“You’ve ruined it for all of us!” Christina yells at Doris.
“You got a lot of nerve accusing me,” Doris turns to her stepdaughter. “You think he enjoyed seeing his only daughter in the arms of another woman?”
“That had nothing to do with this,” Christina says.
“Did he say anything to you?” Clayton asks Brewster.
“No.”
“You were trading off his seat; you had to have seen him going down.”
“Were the checks still clearing he was writing to you?” Brewster surprises Clayton with this one.
This is information that will definitely end up on recipe cards.
Brewster counters, “I’d like to have half the cash he funneled into that shell corporation of yours.”
“You don’t know shit, so shut the hell up.”
“Make me, asshole!”
Brewster and Clayton stand and slap at each other across the table like a couple of third-graders on the playground.
Norbert uses the disruption as cover to grab the last Danish on the tray and wolf it down. I fold my arms against my chest, lean back, and watch. Tiffany’s hands become fists, and she acts like a woman at a prizefight, egging on the combatants.
Doris stumbles out of her chair to scream at the boys, “Sit down.”
Christina comes out of her chair to scream at Doris, “Don’t tell them what to do. You sit down.”
“Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?” Doris squares off against Christina.
The scene at the table reminds me of one of those reality TV shows my kids make me watch, where all the fights just happen to take place in perfect lighting, with numerous camera angles, succinct dialog, and the tempo rising to a high pitch. A fight where no one gets hurt and ends at the exact last second before they break for the final commercials.
“Quiet!” Conway puts his bulk behind the order and the combatants cease their attacks. “You want to fight, do it on your own time. Pick a place away from here and go at it to your hearts’ content.” Conway’s breathing is so hard, his suspenders pulsate upon his chest. “I suggest you all read the will in its entirety.” He slings copies to each.
Doris grabs her copy, her purse, and heads for the door. Clayton tosses his in his briefcase. Brewster rolls up his like a program at a baseball game and slaps it into his bare hand. Christina sits down, staring at the pages in front of her, as if she is afraid to touch them in fear of contacting germs. The three file out in order, each giving the other plenty of space.
The Augustus family’s life, as they once knew it, was now pretty much over.
“Was that great or what, Mister Sherlock?”
“Tiffany…”
“What can I say? I love drama.”
“Now would you go to the bank?”
“Oh, yeah, money for the hooker.”
“And meet me no later than three-forty-five,” I write down the address.
“One North State,” she says, seeing the address on the paper. “I’ve been in this building, and it sure didn’t look like a brothel to me.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” I head out the door.
“Where are you going, Mister Sherlock?”
“To check out the last two recipients.”
“Can I come?”
“No, you have to go get my money.”
“Oh, yeah.”
And they say you lose your memory as you age.
___
I walk a few blocks and enter the Board of Trade. I take the elevator to the fourth floor and enter the viewing room that hangs over the trading floor, which is similar to a luxury sky box at the United Center. I stand with the rest of the tourists and watch as guys jump around flashing hand signals while tearing off scraps of paper to hand to the chit collector in their respective pits. It is a particularly active day for pork bellies.
There have been a number of epidemics in the pits. One guy gets a cold, screams his lungs out, and infects all the other guys around him. From sore throats to the flu, this is one of the odder hazards of the workplace. There are few women in this line of work, due to the fact that they cannot take the physical contact of flying elbows, deadly felt pens, bad breath, and having to wear an ugly, unflattering smock to work each day. On the trading floor hundreds of thousands of dollars are changing hands in a ritual, more than one-hundred years old, based purely on honesty. Quite amazing, and mighty hard to believe in this day and age.
Once I get the feel for the place, and feel hyped up to the equivalent of three loaded cappuccinos, I make my way upstairs to the offices of Alvin J. Augustus Enterprises Incorporated.
“May I speak to the person in charge?” I ask the young, attractive girl seated at the reception desk.
“He’s not available.”
“When will he be in?”
“Not soon,” she says. “He’s dead.” She takes out a small pink pad of paper, pre-printed with While You Were Out on the top. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“Wouldn’t the chances of me getting an answer be pretty slim?”
She leans forward and whispers. “That’s what I thought, too.”
“Could I speak with the person filling in during the eternity that Alvin is away?”
“Mister Heffelfinger.”
“An older guy, wears a tweed coat?” I ask.
“Tweed?”
“Patches on the elbows.”
“Yeah, that’s him,” she says.
“Is he available?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
I keep this incredible verbal repartee at the optimum level. “Is there anyone else working here I could talk to, besides you, of course?”
“Miss Millie went with Mister Heffelfinger, so we’re pretty much closed.”
“Millie Maddocks?”
“Yeah.”
There are two large, ugly, Uzilevsky prints hanging on the walls, a couch and leather chair with a table and lamp between. Tasteful, but hardly impressive. The carpet is industrial grade.
“Mind if I wait?”
“No.”
I get the impression she is glad to have some company. I sit down on the couch.
“Do you like working here?”
“It’s okay; pays well,” she tells me. “I want to go back to school and learn to be a dental hygienist.”
“You like teeth?”
“I like mine.” She flashes me a big smile.
“Was Mister Augustus a good guy to work for?”
“Mister Alvin was cool, I guess.” She retrieved a nail file from the top drawer. “Since I’m out here, I’m not real close when he’s back there screaming and swearing at people. He never swore at me.”
“How were his teeth?”
“I don’t think he ever had braces.”
“Did his kids ever come here?”
“Not while I was around.”
“Wife?”
“She’d pop in and walk right by me.”
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“How were her teeth?”
“Capped.”
“Did anybody ever come in that looked scary?” This is a dumb question, but fitting for the person being asked.
“Mister Alvin had some weird friends.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know; they’d walk right by me, too.”
“I bet you hated that.”
“Not really.”
I can see celebrity magazines, US, People, Star, Enquirer etc., in a stack beneath her desk.
“Mind if I go back and take a look at the offices?”
“No,” she shakes her head, “I don’t know if that would be a good idea.”
I get up from the chair. “Is there a restroom I can use?”
“Sure, it is on the left after you go through this door.” She points me in the direction of the offices, then picks up the file and starts in on her pinkie finger.
I begin my non-guided tour. There are two secretarial desks in the open part of the room with four offices, one in each corner and two facing east. The doors to the offices are open. There are no nameplates.
The corner office on the right screams accountant. A calculator, adding machine, and a computer sit on the desk, perfectly positioned for the left hand to hit the adding key, the right hand the calculator, and both to work the keyboard. A stack of papers fills the in-box. I search through the loose leafs, examine a few at random and see numbers, numbers, and more numbers. On one wall there is a line-up of four-foot filing cabinets, reminding me of a library’s card catalog system. On the other wall is a table, maybe three feet in width. It is covered with stack after stack of charts, graphs, papers, books, legal documents, and assorted articles that will never be read. This table of material is obviously added to often, but seldom subtracted from.
The man who occupies this enclave is totally set in his ways, stubborn, has a mind like a steel trap, a dandruff problem, worn shoes, and does not remove his suit coat while he works.
I walk behind the desk, open the drawers until I find something of interest. It pops up in the third drawer. I lift the large, three-to-a-page checkbook, page to the middle; and tear out one check that will not be immediately missed, stashing it in my pocket for safekeeping. I return the checkbook to its rightful drawer. I go through files, write down what I find to be of importance, and leave the room.