1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (13 page)

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 smile
s
.

“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.

“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
. N
o 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
. Y
ou 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 ris
ing
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 pit
s
. 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 s
ore 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 might
y
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, U
z
ile
v
sky 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.”

“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
. I
t 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.

I skip the middle offices, leery of how much time I’m allowed in the men’s room.

Alvin’s office is twice the size of the accountant’s. On a massive desk sits an empty in-box, a large desk blotter, a gold pen-and-pencil set
. I
t is past being neat. On the opposite wall, facing the desk, are three plasma-TV screens stacked one above the other
. T
o the left and right of the screens are two computer desks with the largest PC monitors I have ever seen; they must be twenty-five inches in width. There are two Oriental rugs on the floor, one beneath Alvin’s desk and the other under one of the computer stations in front of the TV monitors. There is one spot on the floor that needs a rug to cover the crummy carpet.