Wycliff liked this man’s frankness, his willingness to poke fun at himself. His head isn’t too big for his hat, he thought. A point in his favor.
Cummings indicated the backpacks. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
Wycliff nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Come on into my office. My assistant is out running errands, but I can get you something to drink. Coffee, a Coke?’
‘I’m fine,’ Wycliff said. He picked up one of the packs. Cummings took the other. ‘Damn, that feels good,’ he said. ‘You just print it?’
‘Recently,’ Wycliff deadpanned.
‘A man after my own heart.’
Wycliff followed Cummings into his office, which was as sparingly furnished as his reception space. A desk, a chair behind it, one in front, a row of filing cabinets against the back wall. The desk was dominated by a battery of laptops, all turned on. Figures and graphs played across the screens. One was streaming CNBC. The figures were as decipherable to Wycliff as Egyptian hieroglyphics. He looked at them, though, as if he was interested and knew what he was watching.
‘Noise,’ Cumming said, indicating the screens. ‘Ninety-nine percent bullshit. I have to watch, in case something unexpected jumps up. In this business, microseconds can mean the difference between life and death.’
You’re wrong about that, Wycliff thought. I know the real difference between life and death. It ain’t this.
‘May I?’ Cummings asked, taking hold of one of the backpack zippers.
‘It’s why I’m here.’
Cummings opened the backpack. He stared at the piles of fresh, crisp, bundled bills. Then he leaned over and inhaled, as if breathing in the aroma of a freshly poured glass of wine. ‘I love the smell of money,’ he said. ‘Best smell in the world.’
He zipped the pack up. ‘Sit down,’ he said, indicating the visitor’s chair. ‘Before I take this wonderful lucre off your hands, we have paperwork to fill out.’ He opened a desk drawer and took out some documents, which he laid out on an uncluttered area of his desk. ‘You can sit here and read these over cover to cover,’ Cummings said. ‘It’s your money, I want you to know what you’re signing.’
‘What are they?’ Wycliff asked. He didn’t want to read this gobbledygook, it would take forever and wouldn’t mean shit to him anyway.
‘We’re opening an account for you at Schwab. I will invest your money to the best of my fiduciary ability. I’ll have limited power of attorney to buy and sell stocks and other financial commodities for you without having to ask your permission every time I make a transaction. If I’m going to do something big, I’m going to call you first and tell you, explain what I’m doing, and why. Sometimes, though, you have to jump, right now. A ten-second lag can mean the difference between making a fortune and losing one.’
‘I get that,’ Wycliff said. ‘That’s fine. You’re the expert, not me.’
‘Good.’ Cummings picked up a second form. ‘This explains my fee structure. I take one percent of your gross investment, plus ten percent of profits. That’s a good deal,’ he said, selling himself a little. ‘Most hedge funds take twenty percent of profits. I think that’s too much. I’m happy with ten percent. Makes me work harder.’
Wycliff was swimming in quicksand. ‘Sounds fair to me,’ he responded.
‘Let’s see, what else? Basic stuff for tax purposes. Social, date of birth, the usual. You can fill them out here, it’ll only take you a few minutes.’ He leafed through the other forms. The last page of each one was tagged for signature and date. ‘If you sign and date these, I can put this money to work today.’
In less than five minutes, Wycliff was finished signing and dating. His hand was shaking slightly as he handed the documents to Cummings.
‘Thanks,’ Cummings said. ‘You won’t regret this.’ He put the documents into a folder. ‘Before you go. How are you fixed for cash for the next few months? What’s your monthly nut?’
Wycliff thought for a moment. He was living rent-free and the rest of his expenses were minimal, but he would be taking an apartment soon with Amelia, buying furniture, whatever else you did when you set up house-keeping. A hundred a day should cover everything, he calculated in his head. ‘Four thousand a month,’ he said, adding a thousand for reserve.
‘You going to need more than that,’ Cummings said dubiously. ‘Los Angeles is expensive. I want you to feel financially secure for a good six months. Let’s say five thousand a month.’
He unzipped one of the packs and took out a dozen bundles, which he placed on the desk. ‘Thirty thousand dollars. Put it in various banks. If you open up accounts of less than five thousand in each, no one pays attention. This way, I won’t feel pressure to sell before we should because you’ve run out of money.’
This guy’s smart, Wycliff thought. And he isn’t greedy. Otherwise he would take it all. Cummings gave him a large accordion folder, and he stuffed the bundles into it.
‘We’ll be in constant touch,’ Cummings told him. ‘If you have any questions, call me twenty-four-seven. I mean that.’ He chuckled. ‘I have clients that call me at three in the morning. It comes with the territory.’
‘If I call you at three in the morning,’ Wycliff said, ‘it’s because I’m drunk. So don’t pay it any attention. Don’t even pick up.’
Cummings walked him to the door. ‘I’m here for you. That’s what I want you to know. I’m here to make you as much money as I can.’ He grinned again. ‘Without breaking the law.’
The law offices of Goodwin, O’Shaughnessy, and Levine were in a high-rise office building on Sunset at the west end of the strip, not far from Charlotte’s condo. The traffic on the Strip was heavier than usual, so Wycliff arrived a few minutes late. He rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor. A receptionist checked his name off a list and asked him to take a seat.
There were about a dozen other people there besides him. Wycliff assumed they were here for the same reason he was. The only person he recognized was Stanley, the former house-sitter. He gave Wycliff a shy smile and looked away. Wycliff didn’t recall seeing any of the others at Billy’s funeral. Vultures. Deny the man, covet his possessions.
Everyone seemed uncomfortable. Wondering how big a slice of the pie they were getting, Wycliff figured. Some would be happy, some would be disappointed. He had given up worrying about that. Whatever small taste he got, if any, would be a bonus.
The receptionist picked up her phone and listened. ‘You can go in now,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
Some of the people, Wycliff included, looked at each other awkwardly, until they realized she meant them as a group. They all got up and followed her down a corridor and into a conference room.
Levine, dressed similarly to when he had come to the house, including the old-fashioned bow tie, was seated at the head of a long mahogany table. A stack of legal-size envelopes was assembled in front of him. Captain’s chairs lined the table on either side. Levine’s horse-faced assistant sat perched behind him, her back against the wall, the way a seasoned poker player positions himself. Her expression was dour, like before, Wycliff noticed. It probably never changed.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Levine said cordially. ‘Take a seat wherever you like.’
There was an awkward musical-chairs shuffle until each person secured a chair. Wycliff sat at the far end. Lawyers made him nervous, on principle. Everyone turned to Levine in anticipation.
‘You have been asked to attend this meeting because you are the beneficiaries of my client’s will,’ Levine said. ‘It is simple, uncomplicated, and unassailable. He was of sound mind and body when he finalized it. I have a statement from his doctor attesting to that. So if any of you have thoughts of contesting it, put them out of your mind.’ His tone of voice was bland, but his intent was firm.
Is he looking at me, Wycliff thought? He fidgeted in his chair.
‘As I say your name, please acknowledge yourself,’ Levine said. Each person, when his or her name was called, replied ‘her
e’ or ‘yes’. One woman raised her hand like she was back in grade school. Wycliff muttered ‘yo’ when his name came up. Some of the people, hearing it, looked at him with curiosity and surprise. It was obvious that no one other than Stanley and the lawyer had known Billy had blood kin.
Levine read the basic boiler plate. Then he got down to the details. ‘I am not going to announce the bequests that were made to each of you. That information is in the envelopes you will receive. After I give you your packet I would like you to leave without speaking to anyone here. If you have any questions or concerns you can call my office and set up an appointment to discuss them with me later.’
Smart, Wycliff thought. He wants to avoid a cat fight. Nothing pisses people off more than not getting what they don’t deserve.
One by one the names were read off, the packets distributed, the designees thanked for coming. Wycliff waited his turn with growing impatience. Let’s get it over with, he fumed silently. Give me whatever lame token I’m getting and I’ll move on. As he watched each recipient receive their gift he tried to guess which ones were scoring high and which were getting lumps of coal in their stockings.
Stanley was one of the last called. He received his envelope with trembling hands. ‘Thank you,’ he told Levine, the only one of the beneficiaries to offer thanks. ‘I know this came from Billy’s heart.’ He looked like he was going to break down and cry. Wycliff felt sorry for the poor little guy. His hero is now with the angels or wherever souls go to, a concept he did not believe in. When you’re dead, you’re dead. Worm food. If, by the most remote of chances, there was something on the other side, he would be consigned to the darkest part of it. He was an angel himself now, an angel of death. Satan would be a better moniker. Murderer, killer, coward.
He forced himself to push those thoughts to the back of his mind.
Then it was just him, Levine, and the horse-faced assistant. Levine turned to her and said something privately. She got up, gave Wycliff a look even more sour than those she had bestowed on him before, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Levine settled back in his chair. ‘I saved you for last because I wanted to talk to you without the others being present.’ He slid the remaining packet across the table to Wycliff. ‘Open it.’
Wycliff slit the seal with a fingernail and opened the envelope. It reminded him of the Academy Awards. And the winner is … Meaning: and all the losers are … He had never won anything.
The document was several pages long. More confusing paperwork, like the material he’d gotten from Cummings (which he still had not read). He had never been big on paperwork.
‘You don’t have to read it through now,’ Levine told him. He took off his glasses and stared at Wycliff; then he smiled. ‘He left you everything.’
Everything was the house, the furniture, most of Billy’s personal stuff (a select group of friends got keepsakes that had special meaning to them), and his money. Three hundred thousand dollars in an old-fashioned savings account.
‘As a high-end decorator with important clients your brother lived well, but he was frugal,’ Levine explained, while Wycliff tried to recover from his initial and still ongoing shock. ‘His medical expenses sapped a significant part of his savings, but he was able to keep a decent amount. He was adamant that he not die a pauper. To coin a phrase, he didn’t want to be dependent on the kindness of strangers. He wanted to make sure he had the financial resources to take care of himself until the end. Which he was doing, to the best of his ability.’
They were in Levine’s personal office now, seated across the lawyer’s desk from each other. Levine steepled his fingers and sighted Wycliff over them. ‘And then you came into the picture.’
Wycliff felt as if he had been caught up in a whirlwind, not knowing where he would land, or if he ever would. He recalled the day he had arrived in Los Angeles. It had not been that long ago, but it felt like a lot had happened. For some things, too much had happened.
‘It’s no secret your brother detested you,’ Levine continued. ‘For good reason, from what he told me.’
‘That’s true,’ Wycliff agreed. He was awash in shame and remorse. ‘He had every right to hate me. I was a prick to him from the day he was born.’
‘And yet, in the end, it was you who gave him the chance to die with his pride and dignity intact. Why?’
How many times had he asked himself that same question? How many times had he failed to come up with an honest answer? ‘I don’t know.’
‘Were you hoping to ingratiate yourself with him, so he would change his mind and cut you in? If that was your reason, you succeeded.’ Levine paused for a moment. ‘Motives don’t have to be pure to bring about positive actions. In the end, it’s what you did for him that counted, not why.’
Wycliff shook his head. ‘I understand why someone would think that. That’s who I’ve always been. But that’s not why.’
‘Then what is the reason?’ the lawyer persisted.
‘There is none. Except that he was my brother.’
He spent half an hour filling out the requisite paperwork, the transfer of title for the house and his brother’s other financial assets. He hadn’t gotten around to opening a local bank account, he told Levine. He would take care of that today, so the money from Billy’s account could be properly wire-transferred. (The truth, which he was too embarrassed to admit, was that he didn’t have a bank account anywhere. In Arizona and wherever else he had worked for coolie wages he cashed his paychecks at the local liquor store or a check-cashing service.)
Levine walked Wycliff to the door. ‘Good luck,’ he said. He gave Wycliff a penetrating look. ‘I suspect the man you were doesn’t exist anymore.’
Wycliff was still dazed when he left the lawyer’s office, but by the time he reached the bank of elevators, the bile that had been churning in his stomach rose into his throat. He was barely able to make it into the men’s room before he puked his guts out into a toilet bowl.
Two people murdered because he had wanted to be a player. He had rationalized to himself that he had a reason for killing them, no matter how terrible and selfish that reason was. But the whole catastrophe had been pointless. He had killed them for nothing.
TWENTY-SIX
Amelia was vibrating with excitement. ‘This changes everything!’
They were in bed. It was almost three in the morning. She hadn’t gotten off-shift until midnight. She had to be back at the hospital by eight, but they were too wired to sleep. In her heart, she confided, she had known he would be rewarded for his kindness towards Billy, but she had not dared say so, because she didn’t want to jinx him. Now his good fortune could be celebrated openly. The money and the house were great, of course, but the best thing was that the two brothers had reconciled before Billy died. You can’t put a price on that.
He surprised himself by agreeing with her. Back in the not-so-long-ago old days, he would have mocked such a sentiment.
‘You have to stop smoking now. I gave you dispensation, but no longer.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t worth it, then.’
She punched him on the shoulder, harder than necessary. ‘I want you to live a long time.’
Would they live here? A house you didn’t have to pay a mortgage or rent on was enticing. Her commute would be a bitch, but everyone in Los Angeles commutes. The real question was, were they ready to move in together? They had talked about it, but that had been abstract chatter. Now they were facing reality.
‘We don’t have to decide yet,’ she said. She knew he needed to decompress from all the pressure he had been under. ‘I have to give sixty days’ notice on my place, so we have time.’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ Wycliff protested, partly because he knew that’s what she wanted to hear, but also because he really felt it. He wanted to share himself with another person. He wanted to change his life.
They finally fell asleep, but Amelia was up at six thirty and out the door by seven. W
ycliff, still wired, got out of bed and made her a cup of coffee to go. They would talk later and figure out when they could see each other again. She was pulling double shifts the next few days to make up for the weekend she had taken off to be with him.
After Amelia left Wycliff read the newspaper, took a walk, made some lunch. Late in the afternoon, his phone rang. He checked the caller ID. ‘Hey, John. What’s up?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Sure. Tomorrow morning.’
Cummings was waiting in a booth in the Beverly Hills Hotel coffee shop when Wycliff showed up at eight thirty. As he walked through the room, he finally saw an honest-to-God celebrity. That had to be George Hamilton, nobody in the world has a tan like that. The voluptuous young girl who was sitting alongside him looked like jail bait. Nice to be a star, even one who’s a punch line on Letterman. Not that he had any complaints, he was sleeping with two dynamite women, which was one too many. He had to fix that, and soon.
‘Have the orange juice,’ Cummings suggested, as Wycliff slid into the booth, ‘it’s freshly squeezed.’ He was drinking a glass himself, along with coffee. ‘Hungry? The hash and eggs are good.’
Wycliff hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. He needed to put some food in his stomach. He couldn’t afford to get sick, not with all the balls he was juggling. ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ he said.
A waitress came over and Cummings put in their orders. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked Wycliff.
Wycliff shrugged. ‘It’s going.’ He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, not after all the personal tumult he had gone through the past few days.
The waitress brought him juice and coffee. He creamed his coffee, took a sip, and surveyed the room. Here he was in Beverly Hills, California, eating breakfast across from George Hamilton. Who would have ever thought he would be living like this?
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 21
